It’s all in the Details: How Little Things make a game Better

There’s a saying that goes, “God is in the details.” There’s another that says “The Devil is in the details.” Theologically confusing? Yes, but it does tell us about how important details are. Details add color and richness to experiences that you can’t get if you’re just looking at the whole thing. Games are no different in this regard. Details keep you involved in a game’s story, it’s world, or its characters.

Each of these shops is a little bit of detail that made the world a little richer, if confusing. Who do these shopkeepers sell to?

How do small details enrich a world? What are some good examples?

Mass Effect 3 is the epic end to a space opera that took our Commander Shepard from a special ops soldier to the hero of the Galaxy. You meet companions, fight enemies, and even find love along the way. In such a large series of games, one might assume that the little things would be left out.

Mass Effect 3 is the story of a person very in love with shooting things and chest high walls.

After all, who the hell has time to figure out why the spaceships still make noise in space? Mass Effect 3's writers, that's who.  In a scene with your dropship pilot, Steve Cortez, on the Citadel, Steve relates you to how he comes to the viewing port to relax. He has a line, “When I was alone, I'd turn off the auditory emulators and just watch them drift by silence.” The ships in Mass Effect 3 don't make pew-pew noises, you just thought they do because of the emulators!

in fact, because they have sound in space, they can take it away at crucial moments like in Mass Effect 2 when your ship is destroyed and you walk through it's hull.

The writers know that people expect to hear something when they see something on screen, even if real life physics would disagree. With one little line, the universe of Mass Effect becomes that much more concrete, unrealistic expectations of sounds in space and all. It's nice to know that not everything will change when we figure out how to punch holes in the fabric of reality.

Also a strong entry into the "generic white guy holding a gun" poster contest.

Alone in the Dark (2008) is not a particularly well made game, small details or otherwise. The story is meandering, most of gameplay is dull and repetitive, and the numerous set pieces wear out their welcome quickly. Alone was not without it's good qualities, however. The fire in the game behaved so realistically that it was shocking at the time, and the melee combat was more visceral than anything most triple AAA games feature.

The moment it really shined for me, however, involves one of the most common tropes in gaming: a locked wooden door. In most games, you'd have to go find a key, or find some way around.  Alone in the Dark threw me for a loop. When I swung my axe at the door, I busted a piece of the door right into the next room. I stared, totally shocked, for about 30 seconds. Then I gleefully hacked out a protagonist sized hole in the door and walked on through.

You swing melee weapons by moving the thumbstick back and then whipping it forward. Awkward? Yes. Better then pressing the mouse? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Most games will tell you you're a super powerful warrior or mage, but when you try to knock down a damn wooden door the whole lie the game built up around you falls apart. Alone in the Dark says, knock yourself out kid. Beat down that stupid door. Maybe even burn it? Shoot the lock out! Be a real person! Reality is funny in games; we want all the good parts without any of the bad parts. Alone in the Dark actually delivered what I would argue is a better version of game reality than most games. Bit of a shame the rest of the game had more technical issues than a giraffe trying to use a fax machine.

The Witcher 3 is full of things to amaze you, big and small. You can lose hours of your life to Gwent or just walking around the countryside. One of my favorite little details is one that many people might not have even found.

Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt, or "how to make all other open-world RPGs look like yesterday's trash"

Doesn't this guy look trustworthy? What with the drying blood and general look of hate?

On one monster hunting quest you are sent to deal with a Leshen (a kind of forest spirit) that was aggravating a small village. Once you get there, you find the whole village slaughtered. On closer inspection you find a little girl alive, who says that a man with eyes like yours did this. Eventually you find the witcher Gaetan. He took the quest before you and killed the Leshen, but the villagers tried to stiff him on payment. Two of the villagers tried to kill him with a pitchfork when he argued. Enraged and wounded, he slaughtered the whole village. The whole tale is deep and winding, but the best part comes as you approach Gaetan. If you're wearing the School of the Cat witcher armor he will remark “Well well, what have we here? Feline armor, wolf's head medallion- a crossbreed?”

Witcher Schools are notoriously strict in their traditions, so it makes sense that he'd be more than a little amused with your copycat style. In fact, he's one of the few people who would actually know anything about different kinds of witcher gear. His one line makes you think differently about him and consider your options for completing this quest much more carefully. He's not some mindless brute, he has a sense of humor, and he appears to regret what he did. Any way you chose to end the quest, that one line made Gaetan a little more human.

Video games have gone from little pixels on the screen to massive, engaging, sprawling wonders of technology. No matter how long or massive games get, little details are what is going to engage people. Nobody is going to remember the 85th firefight in Halo: Combat Evolved, but they'll always remember Sarge's pep-talk in the first level. God's own anti-son-of-a-bitch machine indeed.

Round Peg, Square Hole: the Three Act Story Structure and Videogames

When you want to tell a story, structure is one of the most important details to pin down. Each style has its own advantages and disadvantages, but the three act structure is one of the most commonly used methods to tell a story. In the original Star Wars Trilogy for instance, each movie has a three act structure, but the three movies can each be taken as part of a larger three act structure that tells us the story of Luke Skywalker. Games are a fairly new medium, so it’s not surprising that most of them use the same story structures popular in books and movies. However, games are not like movies and books, no matter how “cinematic” the back of the game box says they are. The disconnect between gameplay and narrative in most games makes the three act structure a bad fit for most games.

In case you haven't figured it out, I will find a way to tie everything back to Star Wars.

The three act story structure has (predictably) three parts. There’s the setup, the confrontation, and the resolution. The setup is designed to get you introduced to the characters, the world, and their problems. Later there is some kind of incident (the first turning point) where the protagonist is confronted with some kind of issue that indicates the end of the first act and raises a question that the end of the film will answer. In the second act, called the confrontation, the protagonist will try to confront the problem raised at end of the last act but they will find themselves in increasingly worse situations. Eventually the protagonist will hit their lowest point (the second turning point) and have to learn how to deal with the outside issue, which leads into the final act, resolution. In resolution the protagonist will resolve the question raised by the first turning point in act one and the story will tie up all the loose ends.

The second act is usually the longest one in film, but it gets a little harder to say what should be what in games.

You can imagine how well this works for books, movies, and plays. A young person lives in an idyllic village. A dragon comes and destroys the village, so the hero quests for revenge. They challenge the dragon, lose, and train with a master in the woods. Later, they confront the dragon and defeat it, thus avenging their village. The character changes throughout the story (their character arc) and they become somebody different than they were at the start. Something similar happens in a lot of games, but in a more mechanical sense. When you start playing a game, you are unsure of the controls, the world, and the story. By the time you’re done, you’ll have a deeper understanding of all of these.

Incompatibilities with games crop up around the second act of the three act story structure. In a narrative world, this is the act when the protagonist is their lowest point; this is when they fail at completing their quest. In games, this is when the player has been playing for hours and is comfortable with the controls and the world. Game designers try in various ways to make the player feel the sort of low point that the characters experience, but virtually all the ways lead to the player feeling removed from the game. A classic example is a boss fight where, after you have beaten them handily, the cutscene suddenly shows the boss beating your character like a rug. By the time we get to the third act, we don’t feel any of the resolution that the narrative wants us to experience. We’re having fun and just want to play more. Why do you think so many games now let you continue after completing the main quest?

In Mass Effect 3, you defeat the assassin Kai Leng only to have him summon a gunship and destroy the temple you're in, steal the data you were after, and escape.

The bosses in Castlevania are hard, but that just makes victory all the more satisfying.

The problem here is a disconnect between gameplay and narrative; when they’re one and the same, you feel what the character is supposed to be feeling. In Castlevania for the NES you play as Simon Belmont, on a quest to kill Dracula before he can wreak havoc on the land. You fight through various famous monsters (Frankenstein’s Monster, Medusa, the Grim Reaper, etc.) on your way to defeat the ultimate evil. Each level of the game can be considered a three act story structure. In the setup you have to get a feel for how the level is lain out, what kind of enemies live in it, and where the health pickups might be. Then the confrontation as you travel on you find the boss. It’s possible to defeat the boss the first time you meet them, but more than likely you’ll die and have to try again. This is your low point, which segments into your “character arc.” This is the training in the woods that our hero from our made up story undertakes. Then, the resolution when you defeat the boss and move onto the next level. You feel the frustration and fear that Simon would feel when you see a new boss appear on your screen. You learn the patterns just as he would, and you feel the feeling of joy and relief when you beat the boss.

 In Dead Space you play as Isaac Clarke, an engineer sent to repair the USG Ishimura after a distress call. You quickly find out that the ship is deserted, it’s crew murdered by the once-human-now-terribly-deformed Necromorphs. In the first act, you learn about the ship, its inhabitants and figure out how to fight the Necromorphs. In the second act, the “rescue” ship you managed to call turns out to be full of soldiers who plan to destroy the Ishimura and you along with it. In the resolution, you defeat the Necromorphs and escape. The horror that you feel confronting the Necromorphs is the same that Isaac feels, and you feel it because the game forces you to defeat the enemy by dismembering them. You feel the despair that Isaac would feel in the second act when your only hope at rescue turns out to be full of soldiers trying to kill you. The relief you feel when you confront the source of the Necromorphs and prevail is the same as Isaac’s because you can finally relax and stop expecting a monster around every corner.

Why are people always writing in their blood in games and movies? You should keep that stuff in your body.

The three act story structure is wonderful for books and movies. It’s a great way to tell all sorts of tales, be they love, adventure, or horror. When designers try to apply this structure to game narratives, however, things don’t stick. Too many games have a gap between the narrative and gameplay that removes the player from the emotions that the protagonist might be feeling. When gameplay and narrative work together, then we feel what they do.

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Evil will Always Triumph, Because Good is Dumb: Playing the Villain in Videogames

What is it about being evil in videogames that’s so fun? Well, we’re not really allowed to do it in real life. There’s all sorts of consequences for evil deeds and before you know it, everybody’s calling for your head on a platter. Videogames skip all that messy nonsense and just let you enjoy the (Ill-gotten) fruits of your labor. So, you decide you want to be a villain and you go looking through your collection for a good game, but then you realize that playing a compelling villain is almost impossible in most games. What’s a gamer to do?

Look at how much fun he's having! I wanna do that! I'll dress up in black!

What can a game to allow you to be a good villain? What games take (mis)steps on the road towards good villain gameplay?

It seems to me that a compelling villain, a good villain, doesn’t see themselves as the villain. They’re not cartoonish-ly evil, they don’t spout sermons about how they’ll kill everybody, etc. A good villain does evil things for an arguably “just” cause. Ozymandias of Alan Moore’s Watchmen is a great example. He destroys all of New York City, millions of people, to stop the world from destroying itself via nuclear weapons.

This might be the first time a villain has ever planned ahead for this sort of situation. Good on you, Ozy.

He’s a villain that merits discussion and argument, with complex motivations and ideas. Melisandre, the Red Woman, from George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones series is another villain with complex motivations. Games rarely offer you the full package of compelling villainy, but there are some standouts which take steps in the right direction.

Knights of the Old Republic, an RPG by Bio Ware, is an epic tale of discovery, adventure, and weighty decisions. In any Star Wars game, movie, TV show, etc., The Force is divided into two sides: The Light and the Dark. The Light Side of The Force is supposed to be harmonious, compassionate, selfless, and is the tool of the Jedi. The Dark Side of The Force is fueled by “negative” emotions such as anger, hate, rage, and is the tool of the Dark Jedi.

I feel like the Dark Side could use a little makeover. Maybe a bit less red, some more pastels. It would really help with their image.

KOTOR gives you hundreds of choices throughout the game that move you towards The Light or The Dark side. Thematically, going towards The Dark Side makes a lot of sense. The Dark Side is incredibly powerful and faster to achieve mastery in than The Light Side. Choosing the “evil” path over the “right” path makes sense, given what we’re told in the universe. It’s reasonable that you could think that you’re the best person suited to ruling the galaxy and that might is the only way to get there.

See, Darth Vader made the mistake of trying to turn this whole "ruling the galaxy" thing into a family affair. Nepotism is dangerous, my friend. Branch out a little.

However, this does not translate into gameplay in a meaningful way. There are times when you come in the conflict with your companions over your alignment (and have to kill some of them), but the actual mechanics of playing don’t change enough. You still use the same Force powers but now that you’re evil, “light” powers cost more of your energy. I would prefer it if certain powers were closed off to you entirely due to your hate. Another way to go would have been to reduce your health, but increase your damage output the more you slide towards evil. After all, fighting angry is no way to protect yourself.

Fable, an RPG by Lionhead Studios (recently closed), focuses on the Hero’s Journey in a sort of tongue-in-cheek way. You literally go to a “Hero” school where you learn all that’s required to become a protagonist, then you’re off doings quests around the land, discovering more about your past. Every little thing you do in Fable moves you towards “good” or “evil”. Eat some tofu? You get some good points. Slaughter a town of peasants? Bad points.

What happens if I'm just kind of an asshole? Do I just get a greasy comb-over? 

This system really impresses when it comes to the actual gameplay effect of your actions. Your body slowly changes either way you go, with goodness giving you a literal halo and evil causing you to spout horns. The more evil you get, the more the people around you will fear you. Many NPCs will attempt to run away from you and shops will refuse your business. On the combat side of things, mastery of certain kinds of spells were closed off to you, and upgrading opposite alignment spells is way more expensive, XP-wise. There are arguably compelling reasons for some evil actions, like the extra money you can make in arena by killing your partner but a majority of the actions don’t really make sense. If you murder civilians, they’ll close off their shops to you and you won’t be able to buy equipment. Villains should do evil things because they’re trying to do something they think is just, but in Fable there’s no ends to justify.

Mass Effect 3 is the culmination of a space opera the likes of which has never been seen in gaming before. Throughout the game you can make choices that give you Paragon or Renegade points, which align with “good” or “evil” respectively. Mass Effect 3 deserves praise for allowing you to gain both Paragon and Renegade points because few people are totally good or totally evil.

Like this guy. Not a very nice dude, but he did some heroic stuff. Snape is a complex character worth arguing over.

Mass Effect 3 is one of the few games to offer compelling reasons to take “evil” actions. In one instance, you discover an ancient race of insects that ravaged the galaxy a thousand years ago is still alive. They attempt to convince you that they will be peaceful if you let them live now. Exterminating them to preserve galactic safety is a reasonable action to take based on the information you have, even though the doing so is distasteful. In the second game, you have the option to give hyper advanced technology to a pro-human splinter group that you’ve been working for. They’ve been the ones protecting humanity while the Galactic Council sits on their hands, so giving them the tech is a reasonable thing to do even though the group has a dark past. In the third game, you have the option to stop a cure to a disease that causes 999 out of every 1000 stillbirths in a violent race of aliens. You need their help to defeat the Reapers (the seemingly-unstoppable race of machines aiming to destroy the galaxy), but in the past, these aliens have tried to conquer the galaxy themselves. In each of these situations, you undertake an “evil” action for justifiable reasons. The rest of the time, however, Renegade actions amount to “I’m an impatient asshole who just likes waving my gun around.”

Accurate depiction of 99% of Renegade actions. I feel like being nicer will get you more stuff than being a jerk, but maybe that's just me.

For a leader you need your people to respect (or fear) you but the Renegade actions in Mass Effect 3 would just make everybody around you think you’re a dick. Your actions also do not change gameplay in any way, which is a wasted opportunity. Maybe darker characters could get higher damage versions of offensive powers, or be able to access illegal technology through the black market.

Everybody likes playing the bad guy once in a while. Lots of games let you indulge in some bad behavior, but few of them offer any sort of compelling villainy. There are definitely a lot of challenges around designing stories that feature a compelling villain, let alone designing a game that lets you play as one. However, we’ve seen that games can take steps in the right direction; all that’s left now is putting them all together.

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Scale, Size, and Scope: The Mass Effect Series

After a successful game, it always seems that the game designers ask themselves the question: “how do we make it bigger?” As a result, often the sequel ends up jumping the shark – so named for the Happy Days episode where somebody literally jumped over a shark. In other words, the plot nosedived from epic to ridiculous faster than the main character could clear the dorsal fin.  Gaming has generally been the second home for the bombastic action sequence after movies of course, so game designers should really consider this question instead: “how epic is too epic?” The Mass Effect Series had a really good approach to scale and scope.

So, what makes the Mass Effect Series idea of scale different?

Everyone loves epic space adventure. Unless you hate fun. And joy. And puppies.

Mass Effect, the first game in the series, feels small scale, despite the galaxy-wide implications of your mission.  The story starts out with Geth, the reclusive race of machines, attacking a human colony. You, Commander Shepard, expose Saren and his involvement with the Geth, and track him down for the rest of the game. The pacing of Mass Effect makes you feel as if you’re just on Saren’s tail the whole time because you just miss him, or clash with him every time. Since you spend most of your time in a self-contained ship with a clear-cut mission ahead of you, the large number of planets you visit fade into the background. Rather, the story is really about Shepard, and how you choose to develop them as a character.

Your companion loyalty missions are way more interesting than any of the story missions you go on, save the last one. They take you to new planets or areas and really help you understand your companions and how they fit in the game world.

In Mass Effect 2 instead of dealing with an entire army, you are trying to stop a single ship. A huge ship kills off Shepard and destroys your ship in the first five minutes, which is a hell of a memorable start to any adventure. Cerberus, a pro-human terrorist group, brings you back to life to you chase after the Collectors who are abducting human colonists. Turns out, they’re all on the same ship that killed you at the beginning of the game. The Collectors are presented as mysterious, yet one-dimensional, so you spend most of your time building your team. Each member is detailed, has a unique backstory and loyalty mission, and is generally enjoyable to talk to. In fact, most memorable moments of the game don’t revolve around you, but your teammates.

This picture sums up Mass Effect 3 pretty well. Shepard walking away from the total destruction of Earth. It pictures the focus of the game, rather than any companions as in the previous games.

Mass Effect 3 is the appropriately grandiose last hurrah. Within the first ten minutes of starting up the game, you escape Earth as The Reapers annihilate Earth’s armies. You acquire companions, but as The Reapers, as ominous as The Collectors were bland, threaten the entire galaxy, your mission doesn’t focus on your team, but on helping the galaxy prepare for what might be their last stand. Shepard, by this point, practically legend, doesn’t have much character exploration left. Much of the cast from ME1 and ME2 return, though your squad is much smaller. With these familiar faces, you focus more on the places you go and the people around you. It’s a clever subversion of the intense character-introspection of earlier games, but it’s almost expected; this is the final game in an epic trilogy, of course it would be about the spectacle. Yet, it never feels like too much, overblown, and manufactured.

Ending a trilogy like Mass Effect is like difficult, and many might say that it was underwhelming, but I’m not sure if there was a better way to tie everything up. Once you dig into each game, you can see how the designers used scale to make you care about Shepard, your companions, and then the galaxy. Because you care about all three of these aspects of the game, the conclusion feels like the end of a cohesive journey.