Interactive Narratives: Why My Favorite Games Aren’t Always “Games”
This post contains spoilers for Watch_Dogs, Life is Strange, and What Remains of Edith Finch.
The older I get, the less patience I have for video games. Time was, I’d come home from school, flop down in front of the television, and play until I went to bed. These days, as a cantankerous 28-year-old, between work, pretending to have a social life, and running a blog for an audience of dozens, I’m lucky if I can find time to cram in a solid three hours a day! Okay, so I’m exaggerating a little bit; our readership isn’t that high, and I probably only average about an hour of gaming on a good day. But that reduction in free time means I’ve had to become a lot pickier about what I play, since I don’t necessarily have the time to tackle three 40-hour JRPGs at once anymore. I guess you could argue that adulthood has refined my tastes, but then, I also just had a bowl of Kraft Easy Mac for dinner, so let’s not be too hasty. No, if anything, it just means I’ve come to value different things in narrative-driven games as I age, and I don’t always feel like I have the time to commit to anything too challenging or involved. In fact, some of my favorite games of the last five years barely feel like games at all.
Okay, so now that I’ve admitted that some of my favorite games are barely games (the more pedantic among you might refer to them as interactive narrative experiences, but they’re also known by the pejorative “walking simulators”), what’s the next step? What is it about these games that I hold in such high regard? That’s a good question, and one I think I basically answered in the introductory paragraph. Huh. Welp, article over. Thanks for coming out, folks. Remember to like, comment, and subscribe on your way out…
Kidding! Sort of! Honestly, my enjoyment of this kind of game mostly comes down to the generally relaxing pace of the gameplay, as well as my interest in experiencing an interesting story — I say experience, because that’s one of the strengths of this interactive narrative style of gaming. The story isn’t dictated to the player, so much as they become an active participant in its events. A lot of purportedly narrative-driven games demand your engagement only in gameplay, rarely, if ever, involving the player in the events of the actual story. Mostly, these games gate pieces of the narrative behind challenging obstacles, doling out cutscenes, or, god forbid, audio logs, as rewards for surviving or overcoming the most recent wave of enemies. While there’s not anything inherently wrong with this challenge/reward system, the industry’s overall lack of innovation in storytelling can be feel stifling, not to mention disrespectful of the player’s time.
There’s also the question of inclusivity and accessibility to be considered, as well. Video games are a notoriously exclusionary medium, thanks in no small part to decades of portrayal as the exclusive realm of socially awkward, basement-dwelling nerds (a stereotype I admittedly do little to combat). This, in turn, has led to a fiercely reactionary and overly protective culture which loudly and virulently eschews anything or anyone that challenges the precious status quo of muscly hunks shooting enormous guns. As a result, there hasn’t been a lot of market incentive for larger companies to innovate, which in turn leads to a lot of stagnation and minute iteration on timeworn concepts, in terms of narrative and gameplay integration. The lack of continuity between entries in iterative series aside, this kind of baggage can easily overwhelm any potential new players. “Final Fantasy? And it’s the fifteenth one? That seems like a lot…”
And while I’d be hard-pressed to argue that interactive narratives constantly reinvent the wheel, their smaller scope, and focus on character interaction typically present a pleasant change of pace from the ocean of Maddens and Calls of Duty flooding the market. For one, the laid-back nature of an interactive narrative game tends to reward patience and exploration (which in itself is a marvel in an industry based around constant stimulation and forward momentum). This simplicity, though often denounced as a shortcoming (see again: the pejorative “walking simulator”) is one of the genre’s primary strengths, since it doesn’t require a master’s degree in video game controllers to understand. Generally, you walk from point A to point B using only the control stick, and you interact with only a button or two. It’s so easy, my dad could do it. (Dad, don’t read that last part!) By which I mean, to the uninitiated, video game controls often seem complex and arcane. Simplification results in more accessible gameplay, opening the medium up to a wider audience, and allowing a breadth of storytelling potential not typically seen in traditional AAA gaming.
Honestly, most video game stories are, uh — how can I put this delicately? — not especially good, and even the better ones aren’t always told very well. Since video games tend to cast the player in (almost exclusively male) power fantasies, the stories they tell tend to reflect that. You’ll fight against: an alien invasion, with overwhelming odds; the Nazis, with overwhelming odds; an evil secret society, with overwhelming… You see where I’m going with this. There are outliers, of course, but for the most part, they’re fun, action movie-style romps, appropriate for the scale of the games in which they take place. They’re there to provide a thin premise for the player to mow down hordes of bad guys. And while there’s nothing inherently wrong with that design, it’s basically the cheeseburger of stories — greasy, delicious, and terrible for you. Unfortunately, you can’t eat a cheeseburger for every meal. Not without getting sick. Believe me, I’ve tried.
These AAA games tend to tell stories where characters are propelled by the demands of the plot, rather than stories which grow organically in response to character actions. But again, that’s largely by necessity, and honestly somewhat preferable at a certain scale. Despite what Gears of War might presume, I’ve never been particularly interested in what drives Marcus Fenix to fight the Locust Horde aside from a storm of bullets flying in his direction. Interactive narratives, however, frequently offer the kind of character-driven stories I find I increasingly prefer to experience. Instead of making large-scale conflicts the focal point, they’re used as backdrops to explore more intimate character relationships, offering more relatable stakes than simply the end of the world… again. As a means of allowing the player to experience, and become invested in a story, interactive narrative games also frequently involve the player in the development of said character relationships. Allowing the player a hand in this kind of character-building gives us a reason to care about the outcome of a decision beyond the fear of having to start the level over, a quality sorely lacking in many AAA productions.
Take for example, Ubisoft’s Watch_Dogs (look, you style a game’s title a certain way and that’s how I’m writing it), a AAA action game that opens with protagonist Aiden Pearce’s young niece caught in the crossfire during an attempt on Aiden’s life. It’s a moment that’s meant to impress upon the player the stakes of the story, and underscore Aiden’s personal commitment to his vigilante cause. Only it rings completely hollow. If we think of Aiden as a player cipher (and he’s so otherwise devoid of personality that he must be), then this event is meant to shock and motivate the player. But… how, exactly? We’re introduced to the niece so abruptly that, even though the death of a child registers as shocking, there’s no time for the player to form a connection with her as a character or even a gameplay asset (if we want to get particularly mercenary about it) before she’s unceremoniously put into a wood chipper for narrative purposes. The character adds nothing to the game, and nothing the player does affects the outcome of her story. I don’t even remember her name, she’s such a non-factor. It’s a prime example of something a lot of games do poorly: attempt to emulate filmic storytelling. Rather than use the strengths of the medium to their advantage (player interaction! simulated choice! environmental storytelling!), most games, either through cutscenes, audio logs, or journal entries, simply emulate a device that worked in a different medium, without any consideration for why it worked.
Contrast then, Watch_Dogs’s calculated killing, with Chloe’s death at the end of Dontnod’s recent Life is Strange. At its conclusion, Life is Strange forces you, as protagonist Max Caulfield, to make a choice between letting your best friend/romantic interest die, and letting your entire town be destroyed so that she might live. If, like me, you’re an irredeemable monster, you chose the former option, letting Chloe die so that hundreds of others might live. The needs of the many, etc. By comparison to Aiden Pearce’s niece (whose name I, again, do not even remember), Chloe’s death feels earned, coming as it does at the end of a 10-hour narrative arc, and as a culmination of the game’s overall mechanics, in which the player has been invested from the beginning. See, the crux of Life is Strange is the dual concept of choice and consequence. The player is required throughout the game to make simple, binary decisions that, while they don’t affect the narrative at-large, do inform your character’s development, and interaction with others. The twist comes from protagonist Max’s ability to reverse time, and effectively undo her most recent decision, allowing the player to choose their preferred outcome for a given situation. Based on a decision made in the first episode, for example, a character may decide not to listen to Max in episode four, and so on. The point is to impress upon the player that choices, however unimportant they seem, have consequences. Chloe’s ultimate fate plays into this idea, as it’s her death which gives Max her powers in the first place, the consequence of which is the temporal storm now bearing down on their quiet coastal town. Ultimately, letting Chloe die means going back in time and preventing those powers from ever manifesting, saving the town, but losing your best friend in the process. Time travel: it’s a real basket of peaches.
But it’s that central mechanic of player choice which drives the burgeoning relationship between the two characters, and as a result, the emotional core of the narrative, which unfolds against the backdrop of a potentially world-ending catastrophe. And because of the personal nature of the stakes, the catastrophic potential of the storm feels almost insignificant, right up until it’s not. Max and Chloe’s relationship feels, for the most part, natural and dynamic, because the game weaves its growth into the minimalist gameplay, asking for only the barest of interaction from the player. While it always ends in the same place for the two young women (with Max forced to make that single, fateful choice), the events that determine how they (and you) got there are largely determined by the player’s choices. I’ve yet to speak to anyone who’s played Life is Strange and not been moved by its story, and I think that’s got a lot to do with the way it quietly engages the player, by asking they interact with the characters on their own terms.
In an even more minimalist example, games like Giant Sparrow’s What Remains of Edith Finch, limit player agency largely to the exploration of a singular linear narrative. In doing so, it commits to an intriguing story that sees the player exploring the tragically short lives of the protagonist’s supposedly cursed family, of which she is the last surviving member. It accomplishes this by presenting the family member’s stories as their own separate gameplay vignettes, each of which briefly presents the player with a simple new gameplay conceit illustrating the family member’s untimely demise. Each vignette is unlocked by exploring along the predetermined path, and while forward momentum is encouraged, the player is never penalized for taking their time between segments. Allowing the player the opportunity to drink in the environmental flourishes adds as much to the narrative as the clever gameplay of each vignette. And although the gameplay in the disparate segments varies wildly, it never taxes the player beyond their means, nor gets in the way of the story, instead helping to illustrate and amplify each segment’s overarching narration. Through these vignettes, What Remains of Edith Finch succeeds over the course of its brief playtime where so many games have failed on a much larger scale, and tells a touching story about coming to terms with one’s family history, and the emotional wreckage often left in our wake.
It helps, of course, that neither of these games overstay their welcome. What Remains of Edith Finch can be completed in two hours, and even the five-part episodic Life is Strange can be experienced in an evening. In an era where 12 hours or more (40+ if we’re talking RPGs) is considered the norm for video game story length, it’s refreshing to be able to have a complete experience wrapped up in a single gameplay session. And while this brevity is a tactic seemingly lifted from other forms of media, these games also embrace the strengths of their own interactive medium, instead of fighting against them, helping the player feel like an active participant in the story, instead of a witness (on the AAA side of things, the original Mass Effect trilogy admittedly executed this pretty well). By masking narrative actions in gameplay, or allowing the player to dictate the trajectory of their relationships with the characters, these games add a depth to their storytelling that would not be possible in any other medium.
It’s why that choice at the end of Life is Strange is so uniquely heartbreaking, even among its interactive narrative contemporaries. We’re not simply watching a cutscene unfold as the character makes a decision, nor are we asked to make a sweeping, deeply impersonal choice about the fate of an entire galaxy. We’re asked, as both player and character, to decide the outcome of a simple human dilemma: are you willing to let one person you love die to save a thousand you don’t? The game casts you right there alongside Max, making the decision about a character who, over the course of the last five episodes, we’ve spoken with, saved, and ultimately grown to care for. Maybe it’s just the invisible artifice of the storytelling. Maybe it’s just an exceptionally strong performance. I don’t know for sure. But the ending of Life is Strange is a personal experience I’m still thinking about, more than two years later. Of everyone I’ve spoken to who’s finished the game, I can’t think of anyone other than myself who made the choice to let Chloe die. And being able to have, and keep that experience, to me, says everything.
This article originally ran October 2017, on Narrativity.com.
