Recently I've been thinking a lot about the kinds of challenges games present you with. I'm not happy with the way we think about challenges these days, the various clumsy categorizations and forced pigeonholes. Originally, this was a bit of a rant about that, but I'd much prefer to talk about ways of making challenges interesting. This applies to both video games and tabletop games.
Let's start with the idea that combat has a certain complexity. Complexity is a combination of how hard it is to predict, and the importance of predicting.
For example, at first glance "Superman vs 50 thugs" seems complex because there are a lot of moving pieces. But the truth is that it's very simple: no matter how well the thugs do, the outcome is going to be the same. It may be hard to predict exactly what each thug will roll, but it's easy to predict what the outcome will be.
Most games focus on bringing the enemies into the same power category as the players. Superman doesn't fight thugs, he fights Bizarro Superman, or Brainiac, or something. This works well, but only as a basic patch: it doesn't add to the challenge, it just makes the challenge a challenge.
Sometimes a game will bring the players down to the enemies' level. Superman fights 50 thugs, sure, but beneath Lex Luthor's Red Sun Lamp, which makes him very weak. This is generally not recommended as it negates a lot of the player's built-up agency (statistical character development). However, if the player chooses to have such a weakness, abusing that weakness is fair game, since the player's agency is being expressed rather than negated. Still, it's often quite difficult to work into a game without being irritating both in terms of play and emotion.
A third option, one that doesn't get enough attention, is to change the goal condition. Superman fights 50 thugs, but the 50 thugs are all brainwashed cops. There's nothing in the rules that says you can't tear them apart and burn them to ashes, but you're going to want to limit yourself anyway. Or there are 50 thugs, and you have to beat them all in 5 rounds or a bomb goes off. Or any number of other goal-shifts.
Most tabletop games have two distinct categories of challenge: combat and everything else. It's pretty rare for a game to have rules for goal-shifting within combat: normally shifted goals fall under "everything else" and are resolved using the much simpler and less interesting rules for that sort of business. It's worth considering goal-shifted combat explicitly, as it takes the dense combat rules and puts an interesting twist on them.
I need to stress that this really isn't something you can retrofit. D&D rules technically allow for GMs to make a horde out of brainwashed cops, or give you only a few rounds to beat all the enemies, but the rules aren't really structured correctly to make those challenges complex. In order to shift goals in nearly every combat, you need to approach combat from the perspective of achieving those goals, rather than achieving the kill-or-be-killed goal. At the very least, you need your heroes to have combat capabilities that take radically different lengths of time.
The other problem is that goal-shifting feels a little bit cheaty at first. If you goal shift just once in a while, it feels a bit epic, that's fun. But if you goal shift all the time, it can feel cheap. This is simply because we're used to it feeling epic, so if we encounter it all the time, it might feel like we're trying to be epic all the time. However, if we build a system specifically to do this, and make it clear that every combat is goal-shifted, it can simply become part of the tactical terrain.
This is very similar to adding externalities, such as "if you kill these guys, that city will hate you". In fact, it's so similar, we're going to pretend it's the same.
...
Challenges also involve some amount of time-shifting. Or, um, risk-pushing. I need a better term. Let's call it "risk projection".
Basically, as a player fights, he uses up resources. Some of these resources are almost instantly refreshed, such as the basic "your turn" resource. Others are refreshed fairly fast, such as HP in a first person shooter. Some take some time to refresh, such as rocket ammo in an FPS or HP in a tabletop RPG. Some require significant long-term effort to refresh, such as potions or levels.
You don't need to put absolutely everything you ever see into this framework, but the guideline here is that players will want to divide up the risk they face so that it is least risky over the long run. This means they will usually tend to lean on short-refresh things as much as possible, unless they know that a refresh point is coming up for a particular other resource or there is a threat to another, more expensive resource (like HP).
Randomness is critical to this kind of system, as the whole idea eventually boils down to whether a player is willing to risk the slightly weaker "basic stab" or whether he decides he needs the stronger, only-twice-daily "kick to the groin" attack. I know it makes no sense for that attack to be limited to twice a day, but that's the way it works in our stupid little game. And D&D 4.
You can also project risk in dimensions other than time. For example, you might choose to send your army to attack a stronghold, or you might decide to attack it yourself with minimal support. One puts the risk on you, the other puts the risk on your army. It's the same basic idea: allocate risk where it is least likely to kill you in the long run.
The idea of risk projection is one that is usually all but ignored, especially in modern video games. They restore you to complete health and ammo after every fight. I think this is one reason why modern video games feel so incredibly shallow to me.
Risk projection also functions backwards to a degree, when players decide what they will bring on a quest or what they'll take on a level up. Instead of trying to preserve resources until they need them, they instead try to figure out which resources they will need. While nearly every game does this to some extent, in most there is a clear dominant strategy for any given set-up, so it hardly counts.
It's also worth mentioning that risk projection (both forwards and backwards) integrates quickly and easily with secondary play types. For example, equipping yourself and using up equipment (did you bring enough healing potions?). Making political allies and enemies based on the side effects of your fights (did you burn the town down killing those goblins?).
When determining secondary play types, I usually try to integrate them into both the primary play (this sword does more damage than that sword) and the risk projection (this sword breaks on a botch, that sword doesn't).
...
Some games also use some kind of elemental sting. If the player is a fire-based character, they'll hit you with an ice level where you take huge amounts of damage, or they send people who are immune to fire against you, or whatever.
This is just an extension of the classics: sending the fast character up against the tank, sending the slow character up against an archer, sending the archer against a horde, etc, etc. In any rule set, you'll want tradeoffs and strengths and weaknesses. If you can't identify very many of them, your system just isn't good enough.
Taking the "elemental route" is a quick way to establish strengths and weaknesses. I'm not sure, but I think I feel that it is a cheap way to do it. Anyway, it is fundamentally the same kind of thing as just making monsters with the right stats to go up against characters with particular stats.
What I mean is that you can certainly challenge the ice-based players by sticking them over a lava pit and making them fight magman. But you can get the same kind of challenge by poisoning them and making them fight a jailer, or by making them fight a troll during an earthquake, or any of a hundred other situations. There is nothing statistically important about it being elemental. It's just an easy way to do it.
...
Anyway, those are the basics of challenges, in my mind.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Monday, July 05, 2010
Destruct-o-Vision
I'd like to talk about the difference between Pikmin and Overlord. Not the obvious difference in the fact that one is about a seven-foot warrior god and the other is about a tiny, middle-aged alien with no weapons.
Underneath that, the games are very, very similar. The primary gameplay in both involves ordering around large hordes of multicolored henchlings. The gameplay is actually almost identical. In both games, you order your henchlings one by one (throwing in Pikmin) or in hordes (using the thumb stick to control them independently). Your henchlings pick up and carry upgrades back to your base, the upgrades requiring a certain number of henchlings... when killed, you can get new henchlings without much difficulty if you return to your base, which is positioned at a specific point in each level, but not at a specific point on the world. Even the function-color of your henchlings is similar: reds are fire-based, blues are water-based, and you can squint to see many other similarities. Perhaps it's simply because those colors and powers are obvious. More likely, Overlord is fundamentally based on Pikmin.
But!
But there is an important difference between the two, and I want to talk about that difference specifically.
In Pikmin, you have a very high camera angle, a birds-eye view. Your attempts to command single pikmin involve throwing the pikmin, and you throw it a certain distance. Your pikmin-tossing influence is therefore a circle around your avatar, and you can change your focus to any point on that circle very rapidly.
In Overlord, the camera swings way down to a just-over-the-head cam. Instead of commanding your troops to a specific point on a circle drawn around you, it's a linear command: your avatar points in the direction the camera is facing and the troops race off on that direction until they find something or have to come back.
This difference may sound a little bit unimportant, but that difference is actually what makes me like Overlord in spite of its many flaws. I'll tell you what really caught me as I played:
Destruct-o-vision.
The way that, as you run around, you point your finger and your minions go off, smash the pots, and retrieve the goodies. Or kill the sheep, or smash the house, whatever needs to be done to whatever you're looking at. Especially great is when there's fifteen or twenty goblins streaming out, smashing things, retrieving things, a continuous stream of intelligent force.
This is somewhat similar to the effect that a standard first person shooter has: you fire your gun at something downrange, and it dies. Actually, it's even more similar to the gravity gun, where you can reach out and affect things besides enemies, and do fairly interesting and intelligent things with them.
But it's got some differences. One is that the goblins are intelligent on their own, capable of doing fairly complex things ranging from retrieving valuables to smashing targets to upgrading their equipment. Another is that, unlike the gravity gun and the bullet, goblins are an active effect that lasts several seconds. The moment you dispatch them, you can turn and dispatch more to other targets while they continue to do what they are doing.
The "stream" effect was very pronounced for me, it felt very smooth and immersive. To the point where the actual wrangling of the individual goblins and colors felt irritating and nitpicky.
So I began to think about this effect in particular, separate from the idea of having multiple colors of goblins. I couldn't really think of anything else with that feel. Some of the closest ones are things where you can set up streams. For example, ChuChu Rocket. But those aren't the same: they're clunky, slow, and not very intelligent in comparison.
Unfortunately, my quick and dirty prototypes seem to indicate that it's only possible to get this kind of feel in over-the-shoulder cam, which is absolutely the hardest kind of game for me to prototype.
Do you know what I'm talking about, and know any games that do it?
Underneath that, the games are very, very similar. The primary gameplay in both involves ordering around large hordes of multicolored henchlings. The gameplay is actually almost identical. In both games, you order your henchlings one by one (throwing in Pikmin) or in hordes (using the thumb stick to control them independently). Your henchlings pick up and carry upgrades back to your base, the upgrades requiring a certain number of henchlings... when killed, you can get new henchlings without much difficulty if you return to your base, which is positioned at a specific point in each level, but not at a specific point on the world. Even the function-color of your henchlings is similar: reds are fire-based, blues are water-based, and you can squint to see many other similarities. Perhaps it's simply because those colors and powers are obvious. More likely, Overlord is fundamentally based on Pikmin.
But!
But there is an important difference between the two, and I want to talk about that difference specifically.
In Pikmin, you have a very high camera angle, a birds-eye view. Your attempts to command single pikmin involve throwing the pikmin, and you throw it a certain distance. Your pikmin-tossing influence is therefore a circle around your avatar, and you can change your focus to any point on that circle very rapidly.
In Overlord, the camera swings way down to a just-over-the-head cam. Instead of commanding your troops to a specific point on a circle drawn around you, it's a linear command: your avatar points in the direction the camera is facing and the troops race off on that direction until they find something or have to come back.
This difference may sound a little bit unimportant, but that difference is actually what makes me like Overlord in spite of its many flaws. I'll tell you what really caught me as I played:
Destruct-o-vision.
The way that, as you run around, you point your finger and your minions go off, smash the pots, and retrieve the goodies. Or kill the sheep, or smash the house, whatever needs to be done to whatever you're looking at. Especially great is when there's fifteen or twenty goblins streaming out, smashing things, retrieving things, a continuous stream of intelligent force.
This is somewhat similar to the effect that a standard first person shooter has: you fire your gun at something downrange, and it dies. Actually, it's even more similar to the gravity gun, where you can reach out and affect things besides enemies, and do fairly interesting and intelligent things with them.
But it's got some differences. One is that the goblins are intelligent on their own, capable of doing fairly complex things ranging from retrieving valuables to smashing targets to upgrading their equipment. Another is that, unlike the gravity gun and the bullet, goblins are an active effect that lasts several seconds. The moment you dispatch them, you can turn and dispatch more to other targets while they continue to do what they are doing.
The "stream" effect was very pronounced for me, it felt very smooth and immersive. To the point where the actual wrangling of the individual goblins and colors felt irritating and nitpicky.
So I began to think about this effect in particular, separate from the idea of having multiple colors of goblins. I couldn't really think of anything else with that feel. Some of the closest ones are things where you can set up streams. For example, ChuChu Rocket. But those aren't the same: they're clunky, slow, and not very intelligent in comparison.
Unfortunately, my quick and dirty prototypes seem to indicate that it's only possible to get this kind of feel in over-the-shoulder cam, which is absolutely the hardest kind of game for me to prototype.
Do you know what I'm talking about, and know any games that do it?
Structure of an RPG
I've just been revisiting some old articles on RPGs, and it seems that a lot of people are of the opinion that an RPG contains two basic elements that you mix. A clear example of this thinking can be found here, but it boils down to the idea that an RPG is about leveling or progressing the story. Those are the two "modes" of play. All the other rules are to flesh out the modes.
I sort of agree, but it's missing something important. See, to me, the two modes should be called "exploring the options" and "adding new options".
The part of an RPG where you are leveling, buying gear, figuring out good tactics, and so on... that's you exploring the gameplay terrain. The part of the RPG where you go to the next town, fight the boss, and/or get captured is you adding new gameplay terrain.
Some players like to explore every nook before moving even one step down the story, while others like to play it faster and looser, only exploring enough to get secure footing before looking for the next horizon. A well-designed RPG allows both kinds of player to have fun, although most are tilted one way or another.
In case it's not absolutely clear what I'm talking about, think of any classic RPG. You can run around and level up, buy the cool gear, get the new spells, maybe do some side quests for some optional stuff. However, you will eventually run out of room. The enemies don't give you enough XP to keep leveling indefinitely, there's no better weapon than the one you have, and so on. So you fight the big monster, and a new city is unlocked. More powerful monsters, a new weapon, and so on.
Tactical RPGs generally have a much stronger bent towards letting you explore the rules without advancing the plot. In Final Fantasy Tactics and the like, you can level up basically indefinitely using random encounters. Still, you will find it's very hard if not impossible to get the high-level gear and/or spells without actually advancing the plot.
What this boils down to is that an RPG reveals some small part of its gameplay. It lets you explore that all you want, and then it lets you choose to staple on some more gameplay. Which it lets you explore.
This works best when the new gameplay is similar but distinct. If it's too similar, it doesn't feel different enough to bother exploring. If it's too distinct, it feels like you wasted all the time you spent on the earlier gameplay. Just this particular aspect could be a whole essay.
Anyway, that's how I think of it: letting you explore, then letting you open more stuff to explore.
It would be interesting to see if that could be done in a tabletop RPG. Hm.
I sort of agree, but it's missing something important. See, to me, the two modes should be called "exploring the options" and "adding new options".
The part of an RPG where you are leveling, buying gear, figuring out good tactics, and so on... that's you exploring the gameplay terrain. The part of the RPG where you go to the next town, fight the boss, and/or get captured is you adding new gameplay terrain.
Some players like to explore every nook before moving even one step down the story, while others like to play it faster and looser, only exploring enough to get secure footing before looking for the next horizon. A well-designed RPG allows both kinds of player to have fun, although most are tilted one way or another.
In case it's not absolutely clear what I'm talking about, think of any classic RPG. You can run around and level up, buy the cool gear, get the new spells, maybe do some side quests for some optional stuff. However, you will eventually run out of room. The enemies don't give you enough XP to keep leveling indefinitely, there's no better weapon than the one you have, and so on. So you fight the big monster, and a new city is unlocked. More powerful monsters, a new weapon, and so on.
Tactical RPGs generally have a much stronger bent towards letting you explore the rules without advancing the plot. In Final Fantasy Tactics and the like, you can level up basically indefinitely using random encounters. Still, you will find it's very hard if not impossible to get the high-level gear and/or spells without actually advancing the plot.
What this boils down to is that an RPG reveals some small part of its gameplay. It lets you explore that all you want, and then it lets you choose to staple on some more gameplay. Which it lets you explore.
This works best when the new gameplay is similar but distinct. If it's too similar, it doesn't feel different enough to bother exploring. If it's too distinct, it feels like you wasted all the time you spent on the earlier gameplay. Just this particular aspect could be a whole essay.
Anyway, that's how I think of it: letting you explore, then letting you open more stuff to explore.
It would be interesting to see if that could be done in a tabletop RPG. Hm.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Two Agencies
So, my friend and I have been discussing Alpha Protocol, which is an unforgivably samey game with extraordinarily shitty moments, but that's not what I'm here to discuss. Instead, I'd like to talk about agency.
That friend, and many others, are willing to forgive the crap and give a positive review because the game features a fair amount of agency, most notably through dialog options. Of course, the game has a linear plot which doesn't change (and, frankly, is bad). But they still rave about the agency.
It was at this point that I realized our definitions of agency were very different.
Most of these people seem to mean "immersive agency", where the agency exists specifically to lure you into the game. We've called this "illusion of agency", but I think that term is misleading. It's real agency, it's just that the agency doesn't really affect the game much. This is easy to see in any game which gives you "choices". Most of these choices result in either a very short term major change, or a very small long-term change. For example, if you save the princess, the guards won't attack you in this level OR if you save the princess, she exists afterwards, you can talk to her, she'll give you a magic bean.
Immersive agency is apparently very effective on many players. I find it infuriating because there's always a "best path". Even if the writers go out of their way to make the choices "equal", as a particular person, I judge the different choices according to my preference, and usually there's a best choice and two incredibly dumb choices. For example, if you're allowed to date any of the three possible romantic characters in the game, one of them is obviously the one I like best, and offering the other two might as well not exist. For me.
Because of this, to me immersive agency always feels like random added-on failure conditions, rather than agency. Best case, it feels like a reason to replay the game, but even then, it still won't feel like agency to me, it'll feel like a slightly different linear plot.
My definition of agency involves affecting systems. We'll call it "systemic agency". Systemic agency is when your choice affects the long-term play of the game. For example, when you choose to attack or not attack Greece in Civ, and in turn both your future and Greece's are very different.
This is hard to script because of the very wide branches: choosing to kill or save Magus in Chronotrigger, for example, required a fair amount of programming. And still it only mattered a little. It's rare for plot-based games to have much systemic agency because plots aren't systems: the writer is the system, the plot is the product. In order to give the players access to that system, the writer has to imagine what the player might do ahead of time. This is why most games that offer you plot agency only offer you immersive agency: tiny details that make you feel immersed, but don't matter much and can be easily scripted.
I like systemic agency. I understand it's hard to put in plot-based games. But immersive agency always hits me the wrong way.
So when I play Alpha Protocol, I see a linear plot with a lot of arbitrary failure conditions where everyone else sees a detailed and interesting series of choices. What they see may rescue the game from the bargain bin of samey play and shitty bosses, but what I see does not.
Please, somebody, give me systemic agency in a plot!
That friend, and many others, are willing to forgive the crap and give a positive review because the game features a fair amount of agency, most notably through dialog options. Of course, the game has a linear plot which doesn't change (and, frankly, is bad). But they still rave about the agency.
It was at this point that I realized our definitions of agency were very different.
Most of these people seem to mean "immersive agency", where the agency exists specifically to lure you into the game. We've called this "illusion of agency", but I think that term is misleading. It's real agency, it's just that the agency doesn't really affect the game much. This is easy to see in any game which gives you "choices". Most of these choices result in either a very short term major change, or a very small long-term change. For example, if you save the princess, the guards won't attack you in this level OR if you save the princess, she exists afterwards, you can talk to her, she'll give you a magic bean.
Immersive agency is apparently very effective on many players. I find it infuriating because there's always a "best path". Even if the writers go out of their way to make the choices "equal", as a particular person, I judge the different choices according to my preference, and usually there's a best choice and two incredibly dumb choices. For example, if you're allowed to date any of the three possible romantic characters in the game, one of them is obviously the one I like best, and offering the other two might as well not exist. For me.
Because of this, to me immersive agency always feels like random added-on failure conditions, rather than agency. Best case, it feels like a reason to replay the game, but even then, it still won't feel like agency to me, it'll feel like a slightly different linear plot.
My definition of agency involves affecting systems. We'll call it "systemic agency". Systemic agency is when your choice affects the long-term play of the game. For example, when you choose to attack or not attack Greece in Civ, and in turn both your future and Greece's are very different.
This is hard to script because of the very wide branches: choosing to kill or save Magus in Chronotrigger, for example, required a fair amount of programming. And still it only mattered a little. It's rare for plot-based games to have much systemic agency because plots aren't systems: the writer is the system, the plot is the product. In order to give the players access to that system, the writer has to imagine what the player might do ahead of time. This is why most games that offer you plot agency only offer you immersive agency: tiny details that make you feel immersed, but don't matter much and can be easily scripted.
I like systemic agency. I understand it's hard to put in plot-based games. But immersive agency always hits me the wrong way.
So when I play Alpha Protocol, I see a linear plot with a lot of arbitrary failure conditions where everyone else sees a detailed and interesting series of choices. What they see may rescue the game from the bargain bin of samey play and shitty bosses, but what I see does not.
Please, somebody, give me systemic agency in a plot!
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Non-Generic Humans
I made this setting because I hate the "average humans" trope. I never used it for anything, though.
Most humans thought that, when we entered galactic civilization, we would be "average". Not average as in "an ordinary species", but average as in "without any significant strengths or flaws, as opposed to all those damn specialists".
Of course, that turned out not to be the case. In 2160, when humanity finally encountered galactic civilization, we quickly earned the name "the outraged".
Our well-connected population had a finely honed sense of outrage: when something bad happened, sparks of outrage would flare up, and humans would unite to deal with it. If more humans were required, the fire would spread. This sounds like a slow process, but it really isn't: humankind has plenty of experience with becoming outraged, and has perfected the practice.
The first demonstration of this to aliens was when it became clear that there were violently xenophobic human groups. Humans became outraged when these groups began to operate, smashing them down socially and, when necessary, physically. This outraged the sects that were distant cousins of the xenophobes, which acted against the smashers, and in turn that outraged a significant portion of the species, and in the end there was a short but very bitter little civil war. It started two weeks after meeting the aliens, and lasted four days.
As humans and aliens began altering their biologies to cohabitate, it was quickly discovered that human outrage was not always pointed inward. The humans were the first on the scene to help the J'nal rebuild after their home planet was hit by a meteor, and they were the first to send military ships to stop the Pogulpogul from terraforming a garden world to suit their own needs.
It was assumed humans would join the galactic police and relief groups, but this didn't turn out to be the case. Our finely honed practice of outrage is more effective than any organization at directing our efforts, and the fetters of those organizations sat poorly on our shoulders. Naturally, "vigilante" and "human" became synonymous for some time after that, but as with all things, an equilibrium was eventually found.
As time passed and we integrated with the galactic civilization over a few centi-14C, their opinion of us became more nuanced. We're now making a name for ourselves as people try to learn our language, with its conditional meta-time dimensional probability conjugations of verbs.
Most humans thought that, when we entered galactic civilization, we would be "average". Not average as in "an ordinary species", but average as in "without any significant strengths or flaws, as opposed to all those damn specialists".
Of course, that turned out not to be the case. In 2160, when humanity finally encountered galactic civilization, we quickly earned the name "the outraged".
Our well-connected population had a finely honed sense of outrage: when something bad happened, sparks of outrage would flare up, and humans would unite to deal with it. If more humans were required, the fire would spread. This sounds like a slow process, but it really isn't: humankind has plenty of experience with becoming outraged, and has perfected the practice.
The first demonstration of this to aliens was when it became clear that there were violently xenophobic human groups. Humans became outraged when these groups began to operate, smashing them down socially and, when necessary, physically. This outraged the sects that were distant cousins of the xenophobes, which acted against the smashers, and in turn that outraged a significant portion of the species, and in the end there was a short but very bitter little civil war. It started two weeks after meeting the aliens, and lasted four days.
As humans and aliens began altering their biologies to cohabitate, it was quickly discovered that human outrage was not always pointed inward. The humans were the first on the scene to help the J'nal rebuild after their home planet was hit by a meteor, and they were the first to send military ships to stop the Pogulpogul from terraforming a garden world to suit their own needs.
It was assumed humans would join the galactic police and relief groups, but this didn't turn out to be the case. Our finely honed practice of outrage is more effective than any organization at directing our efforts, and the fetters of those organizations sat poorly on our shoulders. Naturally, "vigilante" and "human" became synonymous for some time after that, but as with all things, an equilibrium was eventually found.
As time passed and we integrated with the galactic civilization over a few centi-14C, their opinion of us became more nuanced. We're now making a name for ourselves as people try to learn our language, with its conditional meta-time dimensional probability conjugations of verbs.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Complicated
So, I bought a DS game called "Infinite Space". I bought it because it had spaceships in it. It's very hard to find non-shooter sci fi games these days, so I buy every one I see.
Playing Infinite Space, I was stunned: it's an extremely oldschool game that allows you to customize your ship and crew. I don't mean "equip cannon A instead of cannon B", like "customize" normally means today. I mean "play tetris with components to try to cram any of ten thousand highly varied things into any of a hundred different chassis". I don't mean "customize crew" as in "swap your three-person team out with any of two other options", I mean "assign any of the hundred people you can recruit into any of the hundred positions in your crew, including things like 'chef'".
I haven't seen a complex game in so long, it felt great!
Now, if pressed as to whether the game is any good, I would hesitate. The game is too oldschool in many respects: it is unforgiving, full of hidden gotchas, all but requires a walkthrough, and dying is a tremendous pain in the butt. However, it is also really one of the only complicated games on the market.
We've seen an excessive trend towards simplicity in games. Every game must be winnowed down so that it can be played by a drunk frat boy with only one hour to spare. Sometimes, this results in some amazingly interesting games - for example, Shadows of the Colossus was not a complicated game, but it was a very interesting one.
But there is something to be said for complexity. There is something to be said for letting a player have too many options, for making a game too dense to play drunk.
This kind of complexity is distinct from the complexity of, say, a Sim City game. In Sim City you are given a pretty flat environment you can fill with pieces. Sure, the terrain may limit you, but point A and point B are going to be pretty much the same if they have the same terrain.
On the other hand, the kind of structured complexity you find in complex games like Infinite Space is not flat. The details exist for a reason: it may seem pointless to have a "chef" position explicitly assignable, and it certainly doesn't add to the actual in-game situation much, but out of the fifty slots you can put people in, each is unique and has its own meaning. It's a contextual complexity, where every point in the "gameplay terrain" is explicitly defined to have some human meaning. Exploring this kind of complexity is inherently more engaging than exploring the same "size" "space" in a game with procedurally generated terrain or terrain that merely varies by statistics.
This holds true for every kind of play where "space" exists and can be interacted with. Traveling from location to location is only as interesting as the variation between those locations. So we can have ten million locations that vary only statistically, but it won't be nearly as interesting as a hundred locations that are each unique. Similarly, if we're designing the components of a ship, having the insides of the ship be unique and weird shapes to match the design ideals of the manufacturer is more interesting than having randomly varying shapes or simple shapes.
The problem with this approach is that it requires a fair amount of painstaking definitions and scripting. The amount of effort you put into making a hundred unique locations could probably make ten thousand statistically varying locations, instead. But they would feel very samey. The universe would have little texture.
So I wonder if there's a middle ground, where you can procedurally generate content that is really unique, that really has a flavor and stands out.
I think this requires three things:
The first is a giant stack of things to be unique with. This is a pretty typical approach: if every planet has two interesting details, you can just write up a thousand interesting details and pick randomly, maybe crossing them off the list when you use them.
However, that's not enough. You also need coherence. The uniqueness has to mean something. This might be able to be accomplished by having NPCs react to the uniqueness in vaguely intelligent ways, or having the complexity of the world (dungeon generation, culture, whatever is generated on the fly) react strongly to the uniquenesses that are here. It can probably also be accomplished by "smearing" uniquenesses: If this planet has an unusual quantity of gold, then the nearby colonies will be better off because of it, and the NPCs at those other colonies will talk about the gold.
Smearing is actually related to the third aspect, which is that the player has to be drawn into the unique situations. For example, in Spore, every planet can have some seriously unique life forms. However, because there's nothing interesting to do with them that depends on their uniquenesses, they blend together into a shapeless blah. So the content has to draw the player in, require that the player take an hour or so to look around and really delve into the uniquenesses. This requires a depth of content (probably created by the previous paragraph's ideas). But it also requires gateways into that content, interesting plots or details that draw the player in.
It may also be possible to use unique player-generated content, like Spore does, but you have to algorithmically generate the "smearing" and "gateways" so that the player gets drawn in. That would be an interesting thing to design.
Hm. What do you think?
Playing Infinite Space, I was stunned: it's an extremely oldschool game that allows you to customize your ship and crew. I don't mean "equip cannon A instead of cannon B", like "customize" normally means today. I mean "play tetris with components to try to cram any of ten thousand highly varied things into any of a hundred different chassis". I don't mean "customize crew" as in "swap your three-person team out with any of two other options", I mean "assign any of the hundred people you can recruit into any of the hundred positions in your crew, including things like 'chef'".
I haven't seen a complex game in so long, it felt great!
Now, if pressed as to whether the game is any good, I would hesitate. The game is too oldschool in many respects: it is unforgiving, full of hidden gotchas, all but requires a walkthrough, and dying is a tremendous pain in the butt. However, it is also really one of the only complicated games on the market.
We've seen an excessive trend towards simplicity in games. Every game must be winnowed down so that it can be played by a drunk frat boy with only one hour to spare. Sometimes, this results in some amazingly interesting games - for example, Shadows of the Colossus was not a complicated game, but it was a very interesting one.
But there is something to be said for complexity. There is something to be said for letting a player have too many options, for making a game too dense to play drunk.
This kind of complexity is distinct from the complexity of, say, a Sim City game. In Sim City you are given a pretty flat environment you can fill with pieces. Sure, the terrain may limit you, but point A and point B are going to be pretty much the same if they have the same terrain.
On the other hand, the kind of structured complexity you find in complex games like Infinite Space is not flat. The details exist for a reason: it may seem pointless to have a "chef" position explicitly assignable, and it certainly doesn't add to the actual in-game situation much, but out of the fifty slots you can put people in, each is unique and has its own meaning. It's a contextual complexity, where every point in the "gameplay terrain" is explicitly defined to have some human meaning. Exploring this kind of complexity is inherently more engaging than exploring the same "size" "space" in a game with procedurally generated terrain or terrain that merely varies by statistics.
This holds true for every kind of play where "space" exists and can be interacted with. Traveling from location to location is only as interesting as the variation between those locations. So we can have ten million locations that vary only statistically, but it won't be nearly as interesting as a hundred locations that are each unique. Similarly, if we're designing the components of a ship, having the insides of the ship be unique and weird shapes to match the design ideals of the manufacturer is more interesting than having randomly varying shapes or simple shapes.
The problem with this approach is that it requires a fair amount of painstaking definitions and scripting. The amount of effort you put into making a hundred unique locations could probably make ten thousand statistically varying locations, instead. But they would feel very samey. The universe would have little texture.
So I wonder if there's a middle ground, where you can procedurally generate content that is really unique, that really has a flavor and stands out.
I think this requires three things:
The first is a giant stack of things to be unique with. This is a pretty typical approach: if every planet has two interesting details, you can just write up a thousand interesting details and pick randomly, maybe crossing them off the list when you use them.
However, that's not enough. You also need coherence. The uniqueness has to mean something. This might be able to be accomplished by having NPCs react to the uniqueness in vaguely intelligent ways, or having the complexity of the world (dungeon generation, culture, whatever is generated on the fly) react strongly to the uniquenesses that are here. It can probably also be accomplished by "smearing" uniquenesses: If this planet has an unusual quantity of gold, then the nearby colonies will be better off because of it, and the NPCs at those other colonies will talk about the gold.
Smearing is actually related to the third aspect, which is that the player has to be drawn into the unique situations. For example, in Spore, every planet can have some seriously unique life forms. However, because there's nothing interesting to do with them that depends on their uniquenesses, they blend together into a shapeless blah. So the content has to draw the player in, require that the player take an hour or so to look around and really delve into the uniquenesses. This requires a depth of content (probably created by the previous paragraph's ideas). But it also requires gateways into that content, interesting plots or details that draw the player in.
It may also be possible to use unique player-generated content, like Spore does, but you have to algorithmically generate the "smearing" and "gateways" so that the player gets drawn in. That would be an interesting thing to design.
Hm. What do you think?
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
An Apple an Hour
A word of warning, I'm not a fan of Apple. If you are, this is probably going to sound pretty bitter, and you'll probably have the overwhelming urge to try and defend them. I'd prefer it if you just don't bother reading this particular essay, since you certainly aren't going to convince me.
On the other hand, this is not about why Apple sucks. This is, instead, about tweeting.
One of the things I've noticed since the iPad came out is that I've had to drop some people from my Twitter "follow" list, and are considering dropping more. Also, I've had to stop reading Penny Arcade news and a few other things I normally read. Because the only thing they talk about is the iPad.
I was really flummoxed by this. The iPad really isn't that much better than a tablet computer in my opinion - an evolutionary step, not a revolutionary one. But these people are... well, the only euphemisms that come to mind are unnecessarily graphic. They're really, really, really hot for the iPad.
Well, maybe they think it's just that good?
No, not really. These same people don't tweet so consistently about things they undeniably worship, or use every day with great ease and functionality. Similarly, the tweeters I follow who constantly post about shoes and cars don't have anything to say about the iPad, even if they have one.
These are people who never post on the same subject more than twice a week, suddenly they have a post a day - frequently six or seven - specifically about their iPad. I don't think this is because it's merely awesome, since they didn't have that frequency of posts about Obama's election, which they were generally pretty opinionated about.
More than that, the iPhone was a hell of a lot more innovative by any standard. And there seemed to be a lot less personal tweeting about it and a lot more articles, blog posts, etc.
After thinking a bit, I realized why I'm seeing so many frothing tweets: the iPad is built for tweeting.
The iPhone can tweet, sure. But it's a goal-driven machine. You want to make a call, or play a game, or find directions, or post naked pictures of yourself to the internet. If you didn't have something to do, the phone stays in your pocket.
The iPad is more like a regular computer in that many of its uses don't have a strong goal orientation. But, even more than other tablet PCs, the iPad is easy to pull out at any vaguely bored moment and fuss with, encouraging its use. And, of course, you'll use it for the things you would use a laptop for, which is occasionally goal oriented but usually more open-ended. IE, "let's surf the internet a bit", or "I wonder what's happening on Slashdot", or "let's get some writing done."
Like any other tablet PC without a keyboard, the iPad really isn't very good for writers, and it's not very good for work like art or programming, either. But a lot of the tweets are "I enjoy working on my iPad!" and "I'm using my iPad RIGHT NOW!" and "I'm tweeting this with my dick, because I'm just that good with it!"
The answer, to me, is that the iPad is actually pretty crap for WORKING on. Even if your work task is just answering emails, it's still easier to use a keyboard and mouse. But the barrier to entry is very low. So John Writer pulls out his iPad to do a little writing, he does a little writing, but he drifts off into not-writing land. The actual work is a little more troublesome to do than it normally is, so he finds himself unconsciously stopping more often than he normally would. And what does he do during those breaks?
He tweets.
He tweets about how awesome his iPad is.
Even if he doesn't think of himself as a fanboy, he's got to do something with his not-writing time, and the easiest thing to tweet about... is the device he's tweeting with.
With that explained, I feel a little better about the unending waves of chatter about the iPad. I still wish they'd stop the internet equivalent of creepily dry-humping it, but now that I've come up with a plausible cause, I can try to focus on their other posts. When they have some.
On the other hand, this is not about why Apple sucks. This is, instead, about tweeting.
One of the things I've noticed since the iPad came out is that I've had to drop some people from my Twitter "follow" list, and are considering dropping more. Also, I've had to stop reading Penny Arcade news and a few other things I normally read. Because the only thing they talk about is the iPad.
I was really flummoxed by this. The iPad really isn't that much better than a tablet computer in my opinion - an evolutionary step, not a revolutionary one. But these people are... well, the only euphemisms that come to mind are unnecessarily graphic. They're really, really, really hot for the iPad.
Well, maybe they think it's just that good?
No, not really. These same people don't tweet so consistently about things they undeniably worship, or use every day with great ease and functionality. Similarly, the tweeters I follow who constantly post about shoes and cars don't have anything to say about the iPad, even if they have one.
These are people who never post on the same subject more than twice a week, suddenly they have a post a day - frequently six or seven - specifically about their iPad. I don't think this is because it's merely awesome, since they didn't have that frequency of posts about Obama's election, which they were generally pretty opinionated about.
More than that, the iPhone was a hell of a lot more innovative by any standard. And there seemed to be a lot less personal tweeting about it and a lot more articles, blog posts, etc.
After thinking a bit, I realized why I'm seeing so many frothing tweets: the iPad is built for tweeting.
The iPhone can tweet, sure. But it's a goal-driven machine. You want to make a call, or play a game, or find directions, or post naked pictures of yourself to the internet. If you didn't have something to do, the phone stays in your pocket.
The iPad is more like a regular computer in that many of its uses don't have a strong goal orientation. But, even more than other tablet PCs, the iPad is easy to pull out at any vaguely bored moment and fuss with, encouraging its use. And, of course, you'll use it for the things you would use a laptop for, which is occasionally goal oriented but usually more open-ended. IE, "let's surf the internet a bit", or "I wonder what's happening on Slashdot", or "let's get some writing done."
Like any other tablet PC without a keyboard, the iPad really isn't very good for writers, and it's not very good for work like art or programming, either. But a lot of the tweets are "I enjoy working on my iPad!" and "I'm using my iPad RIGHT NOW!" and "I'm tweeting this with my dick, because I'm just that good with it!"
The answer, to me, is that the iPad is actually pretty crap for WORKING on. Even if your work task is just answering emails, it's still easier to use a keyboard and mouse. But the barrier to entry is very low. So John Writer pulls out his iPad to do a little writing, he does a little writing, but he drifts off into not-writing land. The actual work is a little more troublesome to do than it normally is, so he finds himself unconsciously stopping more often than he normally would. And what does he do during those breaks?
He tweets.
He tweets about how awesome his iPad is.
Even if he doesn't think of himself as a fanboy, he's got to do something with his not-writing time, and the easiest thing to tweet about... is the device he's tweeting with.
With that explained, I feel a little better about the unending waves of chatter about the iPad. I still wish they'd stop the internet equivalent of creepily dry-humping it, but now that I've come up with a plausible cause, I can try to focus on their other posts. When they have some.
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