Noah and Todd's Week In Review - Gaming

Posted in seminar, blog, weekinreview.

March 10 Week in Review (Todd and Noah)

Gaming

Opening observation:

Hodge gets short shrift this week, and so does Jagoda. We got so wrapped up in Golumbia, and then the games, that little was said about either. Before we started playing the games, the entire conversation was almost exclusively about Nathaniel’s opening question about games and capitalism, with a little bit of escapism/representation thrown in at the end, which suggests to me that that was a really good question. Hurt Me Plenty inspires questions of seriousness and representation. Journey and Mountain inspire discussions of impersonal relations and “what makes a game”.

Discussion Questions

Golumbia:

Jagoda:

Scott adds, What makes a media a genre? What’s the relation between a convention and a technological affordance?

Hodge:

Scott suggests thinking about this alongside Mountain and Journey.

Hurt Me Plenty

Scott: How is Yang modeling sexual consent and what effect does modeling it in this way have on the user/player?

Discussion

SCR’s background questions: - How do games index “real world” (extra-gaming) phenomena? (question of representation) “Games are systems that can model systems (rather than having to narrativitize).” - What sort of work do games do (aesthetic, otherwise) that is in excess of this indexicality? - How do their models provide a sort of affect management? - In what ways is WoW offering a model of an economy? “World of Warcraft does not represent capitalism, but it substantiates it.”

I. Golumbia: Nathaniel is interested in the ways games like World of Warcraft train us for capitalism. According to Golumbia:

if WoW is play, it is so somewhat as the game of Monopoly is play: it provides practice for, and just as much simulation of, the insertion of the imperial subject onto the world of capital, of ownership, and of racial and ethnic superiority. And much like those worlds, it offers no scene of victory or emergence from its own terms: as in the exchange of “real” capital, the result of using programs like WoW is even more of the same. (201)

Diana disagrees with Golumbia about Monopoly, and Nathaniel argues this is a misguided analogy because Monopoly was designed to demonstrate how fucked up capitalism is. In other games, though (e.g. WoW, The Sims, etc.), the player has to complete certain tasks or perform certain actions to earn rewards. In other words, rather than train capitalism, they offer “the promise of a meritocracy.”

Golumbia observes:

Some simulation programs…have become duly famous for their market in so-called virtual real estate, where entrepreneurs remarkably like physical real estate agents buy and sell virtual property for significant real-money profits. (199)

Diana suggests that the game, then, isn’t actually mimicking reality – only certain pleasurable aspects of it. Nathaniel agrees, adding that it’s the player who brings the idea of meritocracy to the game, noting that it fulfils a fantasy, with Diana and Ella echoing that the games’ mimicking of pleasurable things about capitalism serves to make capitalism pleasurable.

Joe wants to bring the discussion back to Golumbia’s understanding of “play,” and how the games are prescriptive. Nathaniel agrees, but maintaining his position against Golumbia’s capitalist-training idea, notes that, because it’s “play,” there’s no real risk like there is in capitalism.

Ella suggests that these kinds of games teach that, if you’re a good capitalist, then you’ll feel good about capitalism. In other words, if you’re successful at these games, then, even if you’re unsuccessful in a capitalist society, you’ll at least believe in the system. Kelly agrees, saying, although it’s probably not true, the games suggest that, if you work hard enough, you can live the “good life.” Interestingly, Aden adds that, essentially, these games teach people how to take advantage of others – that they foster the ability to close one’s self off from empathy, and Scott adds that games are not only a simulation, but that they give a sense that you can be successful.

SCR asks again:

  • In what ways are games that feature in-game economies offering a model of an economy? I.e. how do they index capitalism?
  • How do their models provide a sort of affect management for us as subjects living under capitalism? (They give you predictability, they give you power, they give you meritocracy, they give you the capacity to buy shit. They function as affect modulation tools.)

Golumbia asks, is what keeps these things together play or something else? To which Diana responds by pointing to page 199: “Perhaps because of its displacement, the homologies between WoW activity and real-world work are less easy to see, and this makes them perhaps that much more powerful… Yet on one significant level, the homologies are quite visible and yet rarely remarked upon by players.”

Diana wants to know, which is it?

We can’t seem to come to a consensus about whether games like WoW are modeling economies as “capitalism training” like Golumbia does, largely because the economies in games typically don’t function like real-world economies, as Nathaniel points out: “This sword is supposed to be rare, but I can buy it on eBay or whatever.” Ultimately, it seems to come down to escapism and the degree to which escapism is helpful/useful.

At this point, Scott steps in to try and anchor the discussion of Golumbia with his opinion: he compares Golumbia’s approach to affect management and “distractions” such as gaming to that found in The Culture Industry. However, Scott disagrees with both on some level; affect management through escapism, he argues, is necessary, perhaps even a natural response to analysis of the world

He goes on to talk about two schools of thought when it comes to artwork as representation: Benjamin and Stern’s non-sensuous similarity (habituated mimetic relationships i.e. a rising or falling tone signifying a rising or falling object) vs. the ideology critique of people like Horkheimer/Adorno (habituated fantasies pushed onto the masses as a means of control or escape). In addition, Scott says that ideology is often concerned with representation, but we as a culture aren’t entirely sure if games are truly representational or not. It seems that Golumbia isn’t entirely sure if games are representational also; he goes back and forth on the issue a few times.

II. Games

At this point, we switch tacks, instead beginning to talk about the games we played, with the first question being about the differing modes of representation found in Hurt Me Plenty and Depression Quest; Nathaniel begins by talking about how the two games were alike in their attempts at social goals. Scott, on the other hand, says that, in contrast to Hurt Me Plenty’s ambiguity, Depression Quest feels didactic and often unilateral.

Joe and Kelly chime in here to talk about how Hurt Me Plenty made them feel ashamed of themselves for getting locked out, with Kelly experiencing double shame because spanking isn’t really something that she feels comfortable with. On the other hand, Nathaniel appreciates the accuracy of the “aftercare” portion of the game, both in terms of authentic use of kink terms and its radical shift of tone.

Joe talks about how he’s used to celebration following violence in video games, whereas Hurt Me Plenty offers you nothing if you fuck up. The question, now, becomes: does the care portrayed in Hurt Me Plenty echo the care of Journey?

Kelly says the care dynamic changes when you’re aware that it’s another person you’re playing with, and the idea of a multiplayer Hurt Me Plenty with bottoming is discussed.

But the important distinction between Hurt Me Plenty and Journey, as it turns out, is in its facilitation of non-personal reciprocated care. As it turns out, per Kelly, the idea of another person being there is something that really makes a difference in gaming.

Here we talk about Hurt Me Plenty for a while. The controls are minimal (spank or “don’t spank”), and there doesn’t appear to be any real winning condition, it just ends. In addition, Scott surveys the class to see who did not get locked out (quick note here from Noah - since getting locked out before class, I’ve begun to play Hurt Me Plenty again and I think I might be good at it? Weird), and as it turns out, he was the only one not to fail. In this way, Scott argues that the game is intensely representational. It is a procedurally generated spanking simulator, which somehow also affords opportunity for tenderness. Again, the question for Hurt Me Plenty ends up being one of what is or isn’t indexing the real. Also, Scott says that whatever pedagogy Hurt Me Plenty has within it is located in its affect and its simulational excess.

Here, Scott plays through Hurt Me Plenty to display the “good ending” and we get to talking about sex and consent. Scott brings up the fact that sex is often funny (we see at least some of this sex in HMP). Also, we determine that part of “doing well” in HMP is prolonging gameplay, which is a more obvious form of gaming than it might seem on the surface. However, Scott does well in bringing up that sex is not always shattering - sometimes it is a site of habituation (before Project Runway). In this way, just as the computer can revoke consent, we can make the game stop at any moment as well - Diana says that this feels unfair, but Kelly reiterates that this process echoes sexual consent, with Scott saying that the consent is reciprocal. In addition, Joe takes note of Hurt Me Plenty as compelling play through its ambiguous rules.

At this point, Scott talks about how Journey is a game funded on “convention and constraint” - Journey is an incredibly linear game with no real objective aside from reaching the end, but this narrowness of gameplay leads to an inner aesthetic deepness, artistically and emotionally. In Hurt Me Plenty, there is a constraint of control which leads to emotional depth. Mountain constrains us in the same way.

The question switches now to Mountain, with one of the main problems with it being that we don’t exactly know whether it is a game or not. David loves thinks of Mountain more as “something that’s there”, a tangible object - maybe art. Nathaniel, on the other hand, doesn’t like the idea of talking about whether or not something is art. Of course it is - especially games.

The question becomes if Mountain is a game if it doesn’t require choice. We cite Mountain’s musical elements as a yes - Scott says that Mountain is a game an is art, but the questions are not the same thing.

Kelly (I think?) says that Mountain is a foil to grinding - to games as work. Scott asks if Mountain has a telos - we should not consider that games necessarily do - I (Noah) bring up that WoW doesn’t exactly have a telos either, which leads Scott to discuss Machinima and other alternate game affordances.

We ask then if Mountain is indifferent - Nathaniel cites the drawings as proof to the contrary, but Scott claims that Mountain is totally indifferent - it addresses itself at the beginning according to Bogost. Mountain, in the terms of the reading, is an instance of the phatic, the idea of communication as opposed to actual communication, with no hope for a response. It’s more like the act of hearing a text message sound, or feeling a vibration in your pocket, than reading the actual information within. While we may not be certain that Mountain is a game, we can at least agree that it’s doing something highly irregular and interesting with the form.

We recognize Mountain and Journey as alike in being games founded on impersonality - this factor is what makes both games special - but the impersonalities are different, Scott says.

Kelly brings up the fact that Journey requires touch and movement in tandem - as opposed to conversation. It is a game of wordless everymen.

But is this impersonality in Journey a product of its ties to the monomyth? Scott thinks the monomyth is boring, but the universal narrative might provide a context to its relations of everymen.

Nathaniel says that “in Journey, no one knows you’re a dog”, but somehow it feels more personal than same-room conversation often does.

David seems to agree, saying that Journey is different from Mountain in the fact that there is an element of personhood there - a true sensation of somebody else. Mountain does not actively engage you - he claims he felt no different about Mountain than a “nice screensaver”, without an element of necessary interactivity. The draw to Mountain, David says, is a purely aesthetic one, but maybe he’s missing something.

Todd’s less ambiguous, saying that Mountain tricked him with the idea of play. Joe disagrees, saying that Mountain is a game in that you’re sharing time with it. It is a space for contemplation, more so than many other games, more like art - this is why Mountain is engaging.

The topic of Candy Crush comes up - Scott says that Candy Crush is a game designed to be a kind of relaxing boredom, without the ability to be good at it outside of buying things. Candy Crush is not non-relational, but it is sharing a space with indifferent things - like Mountain.

Hodge, on pg. 25, says that Mountain does not make you God in a traditional sense - a non-playable game. Bogost says that you are not Mountain - Hodge retorts: >Taking Bogost a step further, however, to say that I am Mountain means that I inhabit the zone of nonrelationality inaugurated by Mountain exemplary of networked communication and the phatic sociability of being today. The felt relation of nonrelation Mountain installs between program and human operates in the casual distance of the ambient background of networked digital technics (25). Scott thinks this is important, but Diana doesn’t understand why this nonrelationality is supposed to be fun (a fair question). Ella believes that there is a draw to the easyness of nonrelations, but Scott retorts with Journey. Diana says that Journey’s impersonality is a different animal than the phatic impersonality of Mountain.

Scott says that the pleasure of impersonality can be explained by queer theory - Leo Bersani’s conception of shattering sexuality, a release from the self, a triumph of body over brain and identity. But “sometimes you wanna have Project Runway sex”. Scott says that the other half of this is expressed in Samuel Delany’s Times Square Red Times Square Blue - a release from personhood as opposed to a shattering.

Nathaniel asks if Journey is a bathhouse - Scott says no, but Hurt Me Plenty is. Scott says that impersonality and intimacy aren’t opposites - think smartphones, which function in some way as an indifferent part of ourselves (“This is my iPhone. There are many like it but this one is mine”). Wendy Chun says that computer networks work on an impersonal level - you receive all things sent and ignore the things that aren’t for you. Hodge says that in this way, tech connects with us impersonally and ambiently. But this is hard to describe, and Hodge’s project is to find examples of this address - My Best Thing, Mountain. Scott says that Hodge might be putting too much pressure on Mountain - this is probably not what Mountain intended to make tangible. Diana questions if Mountain is relational - Scott says it is establishing a relations of non-relations - “I’m not talking to you”. In addition, Scott says that Hodge’s essay is trying to index a paradoxical relations - the relations of nonrelations. Even a mediated relationship with a computer, according to him, is already too much. It’s hard and weird.

Diana asks: What’s the difference between a quasi-object and a quasi-subject?

The quasi-object (and its conceptual double, the quasi-subject) trouble the sharp division between subject and object. The quasi-object opens onto the matter of what Serres terms “the whole question”: namely, “being or relating.” The “quasi-object is not an object, but it is one nevertheless since it is not a subject, since it is in the world; it is also a quasi-subject, since it marks or designates a subject, who, without it, would not be a subject. (27) In short, in games you are not all the way a subject, and the played-with object is not all the way an object.

The non-play of Mountain, Scott says, makes non-relations an experience, with no “identification figure” to anchor our experience. Scott says this does the same work as Thompson and Craighead’s Beacon - a signifier of an “absolute minimal coprescence” with someone else on a network. But it is ENTHRALLING.

To sum up - Golumbia and Jagoda believe that games primarily work as indexes of real-world phenomena, whereas Hodge thinks that games enact ideas, make tangible sites out of concepts. Also - this week was surprisingly free of neoliberalism - Hodge historicizes the present without the spectre of neoliberalism hanging over our head. For once, we’re not all already fucked, which is a very nice feeling.

From the Blogosphere

Not only was capitalism the dominant subject of last week’s discussion, but it also dominated the blogs. And, much like the class discussion, there was little agreement about what happens in the intersections between capitalism and video games. Even David, who posted about playing the games, concluded his post by commenting on Aden’s citation of Golumbia, saying, “games prepare us for participation in a capitalist system.”

Along with David, most other people concentrated on the games, myself included (Todd).

Both Hodge and Jagoda, mirroring the class discussion, were barely mentioned in the blogs. Noah commented that he really liked Hodge’s piece, having read it for SCR in a previous course. He also noted that the term “phatic” “is both…relatable and confounding.” He’s not the only one, either. Diana brought it up in class, and Courtney suggested that, “While phatic communication in itself is impersonal, adding it to a media culture takes the impersonal to a whole other level.

Diana, who argued against Golumbia in class, actually started voicing her disagreement on her blog:

Golumbia suggests games mirror this drive towards productivity, “the digital sense of task completion and measurable accomplishment” (192). Yet he also goes on to mention the excessive amount of time that is spent playing these video games, the role of addiction, and how gamemakers find a “variety of means to extend the player’s interaction” (195). But if we’re playing video games, we are definitively notworking or producing real world capital. What if we were to think of gaming as an intentional cog in the wheel of a capitalist system, as in, I’m not playing so I am more capable of producing, I’m playing instead of producing.”

Aden, rather than arguing with Golumbia, takes a more analytical approach, saying that Golumbia’s model:

can be taken as a kind of feedback loop: the executive in a suit spends his workday trying to get to the top of the company totem pole at the expense of others and then comes home to play a computer game that not only further cements his aggressive mentality but helps train him to be a better and less empathetic workplace aggressor.

Interestingly, next to nothing was said about Hodge or Jagoda. I’m wondering whether that’s because they weren’t that interesting, or just that Golumbia was so compelling.

On the gaming side of the spectrum, Joe discussed his thoughts about Mountain at relative length, encapsulating much of the same argument of why he believes that Mountain is, in fact, a game.

What did this game allow me to do, or be? Rather than solve something, I observed something. Rather than accomplish or conquer, the game opens a space for contemplation and reflection.

I (Noah) found myself still engaged by Mountain’s semi-gaming charms, saying that, in contrast to many other games that involve an “open world”, “Mountain is special because it feels like it is not merely an experience for the player, like this is a world that will exist without our input.” On the other hand, Todd found Mountain to be a frustrating, and ultimately annoying, experience, saying that his main problem with it was the fact that “there just Wasn’t. Anything. To. DO!” It seems like Mountain, for better or for worse, really stuck a chord for many people this week.

David, on the other hand, found himself frustrated with Stick Shift, or perhaps even with gaming in general: > I exited the game, restarted it and it remembers the place I left off with the timer still counting down. So, I’m at a point where I just don’t understand. I just don’t get it. Perhaps, this is my issue with playing games is that I either always lose, get killed, can’t get past a certain stage, or can’t figure the damn thing out… Perhaps, I’m just playing the wrong games.

Nathaniel, meanwhile, talked about two very interesting topics that I’m personally upset didn’t come up more in class (no offense). First, he discusses Hurt Me Plenty’s compatibility with LeapMotion, a VR peripheral that translates hand movements over a sensor to in-game (or in-computer) actions, and how this technology could theoretically intensify the experience of guilt in-game: >What I’m getting at here is, I wonder if the guilt of violating the terms of your BDSM interaction with your partner in Hurt Me Plenty would be intensified by the Leap Motion. I violated the terms when I played, and felt some disappointment, but I can’t characterize what I felt as “guilt.” Just an unfortunate experimentation with the code made by moving my mouse around. The interaction between my hand and my partner’s ass was abstracted to a degree that left me feeling nothing. Drone pilots report similar feelings in regards to killing people by using the video-game-like controls and viewing their targets’ deaths on a screen that live-feeds the drone’s camera. The technology abstractifies death in a way that helps them sleep well at night.

Next, he discusses why exactly why he didn’t like Depression Quest, in a way that gets at what makes playing the game a very unique experience: >I do not like this game as a video game.

I can sit and read a book, I can sit and watch a movie and have the narrative conveyed to me while my body sits still and within the norms of interacting with those media. Video games, as a media, compel me to move, to participate in ways that I do not do with a book or a movie.

This is why I hate cut-scenes in games. You have suddenly taken control of my game character away from me because you no longer trust me to construct a narrative the “right” way. I am pulled out of the experience because suddenly the camera is moving without my input and the character is moving and speaking in ways that I never chose.

I play these games and can enjoy them, but I always feel that they are lesser-than to games which have zero narrative. Games like Minecraft, Don’t Starve, Day-Z, and even the Grand Theft Auto games in certain ways all trust me to craft a narrative, a world, an experience on my own terms. Or, in the multi-player example of Day-Z, craft an experience that myself and others negotiate, but never with the developer controlling where “I” go and what “I” do.

Overall, a very compelling week of blogging and discussion!