Video Games and Literature—A Comparison

So I’ve had this opinion for a long time, and I’ve even written essays in high school/done presentations in college about this topic, but I wanted to immortalize it here, as well:

Video games have the potential to equal the intellectual capacity and value of classic literature.

That is not to say that they are interchangeable with each other, nor is it to say that one is inherently superior to the other. Look, I love books, too. Hell, I love books so much that I became a professional writer. But I often see bookworms scoff at at video gamers as if they were nothing but button-mashing Neanderthals chugging neon green soft drinks and munching on triangle-shaped, nacho-cheese-dusted tortilla chips. I think that characterization does a disservice to the art form—and yes, video games are an inarguable form of art; it’s literally a major at the art school from which I have a BFA.

Tell me to my face that this isn’t art.

Anyway, let’s compare apples to apples, shall we? Unless you’re a serious fan of typesetting, novels aren’t really visual art forms (excluding book covers, which can be absolutely breathtaking). Their artistic value comes from the narratives captured within their many pages, often inclusive of different themes, motifs, and symbols—welcome back to high school English class, everyone. Now, I believe that the intellectual value of video games exceeds strictly the realm of compelling narrative, but for comparison’s sake, we’re only going to talk about story for right now, capiche? Great.

If we’re going to talk about classic literature, it’s probably only fitting that we start with the iconic benchmark by which basically all hero stories are told—Homer’s The Odyssey. This epic poem chronicles the adventure of Odysseus, king of Ithaca, as he journeys home following the events of Homer’s previous epic poem, The Iliad.

The Odyssey follows (and is perhaps responsible for popularizing) the format of the hero’s journey, in which a protagonist goes through trials and tribulations to achieve a specific goal, encountering archetypes of allies, mentors, and antagonists along the way. Many action/adventure pieces follow some permutation of this format; it’s a tried and true outline for creating a compelling and satisfying story. Since most video games involve some measure of action/adventure element, it’s important to understand this canon.

One of my favorite installments in my all-time favorite franchise.

I know I talk about The Legend of Zelda games a lot, but it’s only because they’re always so damn good. This time, we’re going to observe LoZ:WW from the perspective of the hero’s journey.

We have a protagonist (named Link), who starts off just a young kid living on an island when his sister is kidnapped by a giant bird. That’s Link’s call to adventure. He goes on an epic journey, meeting a talking boat inhabited by the spirit of the King of Hyrule—his supernatural aid/mentor—gets royally fucked up (by threshold guardians) while trying to save his sister because he’s too weak, goes through trials and tribulations to get stronger, gets fucked up some more as his ally gets captured by the ultimate antagonist, Ganon, (the abyss), has to get even stronger by assembling the pieces of the Triforce of courage (his transformation), he saves his sister (atonement), then he has to fight Ganon again with the help of the newly empowered princess Zelda and her Light Bow (gift from the goddess), defeating him and restoring peace to all the land—whereupon it is implied that he and his newly assembled friends get to go on endless adventures to come (the return).

All along the way, LoZ: WW envelopes you in a charming world full of eclectic but relatable characters with sub plots that are all extremely satisfying to resolve. The game tells an emotionally compelling story while challenging you to think and react in creative ways to progress the narrative. I’ve played through and beaten LoZ: WW at least three different times in my life, and each playthrough is equally as satisfying as the previous one—similar to how people have read through The Odyssey numerous times and found satisfaction in its story.

You may be thinking, “but Alex, the hero’s journey is the low-hanging fruit of narrative structure. What about books like To Kill A Mockingbird or Catcher in the Rye that deal with humanistic themes, like the loss of innocence? Or Fahrenheit 451 or Brave New World that deal with control/censorship in a modern world?" What about complex stories about morality and the human condition apart from going out on an epic adventure?”

Great question, my friend!

Red Faction: Guerilla not only had some of the funnest gameplay mechanics in recent memory, but it really makes you rethink your socio-political preconceptions.

In 2009, developer Volition, Inc. (which is now Deep Silver Volition, LLC) released Red Faction: Guerilla under the publisher THQ. The game is a 3rd person POV shooter game with a revolutionary mechanic at the time—fully destructible environments.

From RF:G’s wiki:

Red Faction: Guerrilla takes place in the year 2126. The Earth Defense Force (EDF), the allies in the original Red Faction, have become the main antagonist of RF:G. Although initially supportive of the Martian miners, Earth's natural resources have run scarce, and as a result, its world economy has collapsed from rampant speculation of commodities and lack of production. Under pressure by Earth's corporations and leaders to acquire the resources of Mars at any cost and at a pace to meet Earth's high demand, the EDF has forced Martian society into a permanent state of unfree labour. The newly reformed "Red Faction" arises to revolt against the EDF, drive them off the planet, and begin fairer negotiations with Earth.

You play as Alec Mason, who finds himself shoved into the midst of a rebellion after witnessing the murder of his brother at the hands of the planet’s governing body, the EDF. In the game, you fight for the greater good of the Martian residents at the hands of tyranny. Red Faction: Guerilla is far from subtle about its implications—from its on-the-nose title, to the content of its narrative, to its constructivist-inspired art style—the message is obvious: you are literally playing as a communist.

Red Faction: Guerilla’s logo is heavily inspired by constructivist art from Russian propaganda from the early 1900s.

It’s never explicitly stated that you’re a communist. But you’re fighting for the equal distribution of wealth and prosperity in the game—it really doesn’t have to be explicitly stated. And that’s the gorgeous part of it: once you realize what’s going on—that you’re playing the protagonist in a communist rebellion—it really challenges the American propaganda that’s been drilled into our heads since the first Great War. You empathize with Alex Mason and the Red Faction. You want to topple the established governing body with your own two hands and battle-worn sledgehammer. “Down with the EDF!” you might find yourself rallying throughout the course of the game. If you rooted for the Red Faction, you rooted for communism, plain and simple. How’s that for compelling and intellectual narrative?

“Video games are the shit; come at me, bro!”

Conclusion:
Video games and literature have equal potential when it comes to narrative intellectuality. Sure, there are brain-dead games that don’t really serve a higher intellectual purpose, but there are also books that fall in the same category (see: Goat Simulator and the Main Chick vs. Side Bitch Series, respectively). This blog post didn’t even attempt to cover the puzzle-solving element or resource-management skills that video games can help develop. But that’s a blog post for another time. For now, all I hope you do (if you don’t, already) is pick up a story-based video game and indulge in its narrative. If you feel so compelled, try to extrapolate the greater implications of that narrative to see if the writers, developers, and artists of that game are trying to make some sort of commentary on the nature of the human condition. If you want any suggestions, feel free to drop me a line—I’d be more than happy to add onto your gaming backlog.

A really cool couple’s tattoo idea I saw on the Internet a long time ago.

Immersion in Open-World Gaming: When is it too much?

Of the three games shown above, I only played two to completion—”completion,” here, being defined as “the end of the main storyline.” It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the storyline of one of these games—quite the contrary! I think all three contain expert levels of narrative storytelling. The reason I didn’t finish one of these games is because one of them was completely exhausting to play for me. I understand that the point of open-world video games is that you’re supposed to feel immersed in the universe of the game, and that exploration apart from the main story is part of the appeal to these types of games. Trust me, I love games that don’t force you down a linear hallway of story (not that there’s anything wrong with that, either). I appreciate the ability to explore the passion of devoted game developers who have lovingly carved out a secondary life for us in which to indulge. However, I think one of these games tries to be too immersive, which, for me, has the ironic effect of removing me from the immersion of the game.

Are you ready for it? It’s Red Dead Redemption 2.

Before you get your keyboard pitchforks out, let me explain what I mean by “too immersive,” because I realize that’s a fairly nebulous descriptor to use. I think RDR2 has a chronic problem with its commitment to being as “realistic as possible” getting in the way of the pace of the game. It’s not so much one glaring frustration I had with the game that broke it for me, but a bunch of little inconveniences that compounded on my experience to the point I was like, “fuck this shit; I’m out.” Maybe you can call me impatient. I dunno. But there’s no better example that encapsulates my annoyance with the game than walking through the fucking camps in RDR2.

Literally me while trying to walk from the entrance of camp to my quarters.

Whyyyyyyyyyy do we have to walk through the camp in RDR2?? I mean, I know why—because that’s what civilized cowboys did—but why do we have to walk through the camp? For immersion’s sake? To make us feel like civilized cowboys? You know, for a game that touts its every choice as having a consequence on the storyline, it sure does force you into the expected mannerisms of its protagonist. Like, why can’t I run through camp, pissing off Dutch and Ms. Grimshaw as I go? What if I wanted to play my version of Arthur like Micah and say “fuck you” to all your stupid-ass camp rules? Beyond my angst of having choice removed from me in a “choice-driven game,” I also feel that it just adds an unnecessary lengthener to the game where it shouldn’t be. Did the developers want to force us into appreciating the textures of the camp? Did they want us to be sure that we didn’t miss any social interactions with the NPCs? Or did they just want to show off how cool Arthur Morgan looked when he strutted his stuff in front of everyone, spurs and all?

For comparison’s sake, take a look at how Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain handles your “headquarters” area (Mother Base). As Venom Snake, you can run through the different platforms, drive vehicles up and down the place, or even beat the shit out of your compatriots who often thank you for it. The only real restriction you have at MGSV’s headquarters area is that you can’t kill your friends—which makes total sense in the world of the game. Having all those options available to you really makes you feel like you’re in control of Venom Snake at all times, which really immerses you in the character.

It doesn’t make any fucking sense that I can’t full sprint through my dirty-ass camp to get some goddamn chili in RDR2. Forcing you to walk in RDR2 really just pulled the autonomy right out of my hands and had me futilely mashing the A button on my controller to make myself feel a tiny bit better about my temporary immobilization.

Ohhhh, you sons of bitches are about to GET it, lmao.

Another thing that felt gratuitous to me is something that has happened in other video games before it, and has been equally ridiculed on the Internet—why RDR2 gets to escape the criticism is beyond me: there are interactive sections in the game that should seriously just be part of the cutscene. Anyone familiar with gamer culture is familiar with the Press F to pay respects meme, often shorthanded as simply “F” in online comment sections or otherwise.

By now, gamers are used to pressing “action” buttons to initiate tasks like opening up chests, doors, or reading loose papers. Used appropriately, they clue gamers into taking an action that has a tangible consequence—opening a chest will yield you loot, opening a door will grant you access to a different area, reading loose papers will expose you to new lore. They can even be used as “quicktime events” that have a consequence for failure. But used inappropriately, all they do is stunt the progress of the game. Here’s a tip to parse whether or not an action button sequence is necessary: does this action button stall the game? If so, what happens if you don’t press the action button? Nothing? Then don’t put in an action button.

Press F to Pay Respects. Triangle to connect wire. Power button to stop playing this boring-ass game.

I could go on for quite a while about all the little things that bugged me with RDR2’s gameplay pacing—from the half-assed fast-travel system, to the respawn location randomness, to the tedious stamina mechanic. But the one that broke the horse’s back was perhaps the micro-interactions, such as playing mini-games, making special bullets, or taking a bath at a hotel. There was so much extra animating and button pushing that it felt like a chore doing any of it. Why do I have to watch the winner of every poker hand celebrate and collect his money? Why do I have to watch Arthur carve a notch into each individual bullet to make split-bullet ammo? Why does every limb during Arthur’s baths have a different button I need to press? Why can’t I skip all these things if I want to?

Comparatively, Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild does one of these micro-interactions much better—cooking. Every button press feels like it has a purpose other than gratuitously showing us an animation, and you can even skip the actual (fairly short, mind you) cooking animation altogether if you want. BoTW’s action sequences never feel like I’m being forced to slow down, which is much better for “immersion” than having to see every little minute detail. There are certain things that we just don’t need to be “realistic,” particularly when they get in the way of actually playing the game.

Conclusion:
Read Dead Redemption 2 is a beautiful, story-driven masterpiece, but it really begs the player to have an exorbitant amount of patience to get through its extraneous, forced interactive moments. A game that feels much better that came out around the same time as RDR2 is Assassin’s Creed: Odyssey. The only time I ever felt like the game slowed me down needlessly was when I was walking down that super long hallway to upgrade my spear. But those instances came so few and far between that it didn’t feel like it broke the flow of gameplay for me. I’m not saying that slow parts of a game are necessarily bad—but I am saying that they should serve a purpose, otherwise instead of being impactful, they just feel cumbersome.