Showing posts with label new media. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new media. Show all posts

Sunday, July 05, 2015

Let's Play... International Karate


































International Karate+
1987, System 3 Software

originally played on Commodore 64

Sometimes you just have to beat a person down. Punches in the face, kicks to the ribs, whatever. We can tell each other that we shouldn’t, but the reality is that we love the pleasure of overcoming our own weaknesses by overcoming the weaknesses of some other fuck. Especially through punches to the face, in fact. Of course, with most respectable elements of society thoroughly frowning upon violence – unless it gets ritualised for financial gain through military conquest and sports, or is hidden as slave wages within industrial society – there are only a few outlets for the realisation of this pleasure. Mainly, there’s the whole ‘trying to be a civilised person’ thing that most people won’t shut the fuck up about. And so we have violent films and videogames and aren’t we all so much better for them. Surely.

One reason for the goodness of violent media is that they let my brother and I punch each other in the head without damaging our future cognition-oriented careers. My own enjoyment from mediated martial arts was provoked by an unsuccessful attempt to learn aikido, a failure caused not by lack of discipline or coordination but by my inability to pay for classes. From grades four through eight the school board subsidised a month-long period of phys ed lessons (called ‘options’) in activities expensive for kids such as hockey, football, skiing, dancing, and one or two martial arts. For a lot of us, this was the only time we could do some of those kinds of things. Equipment rentals were a cost I couldn’t afford, so martial arts and dancing were my choices. The military industrial toy complex which ascended with Star Wars and patterned masculinities into rigid forms of consumption and behaviour rested its guiding hand on my shoulder – aikido it was. Four weeks of twelve lessons and I was hooked and like a junkie I couldn’t afford to continue.

Martial arts culture was everywhere in the 1980s and early ‘90s, the west having rejected pop trends for pacifist and spiritual elements of eastern culture in the ‘60s and ‘70s in favour of a mythologized culture of violence and discipline anachronically appropriated from the aristocratic warrior class, and which was more easily commodified than Indian ragas and Buddhist meditation, Beatles be damned. Toy weapons and war-themed action figures were best-sellers in major department stores, ninjas made cameo appearances on late-night television, and the philosophy of the samurai code was adopted by Wall Street wolves. Right-wing teenage male power fantasies such as American Ninja, Lone Wolf McQuaid, Big Trouble in Little China, and The Karate Kid linked the libertarian elevation of individual agency with the conservative desire for social order, deference to authority and tradition, and personal discipline, all captured in the symbol of the ninja superhero.

New martial-arts action superstars emerged, as Bruce Lee, Chuck Norris, Stephen Segal, Jean-Claude Van Damme, and Jackie Chan replaced the gun-toting Dad types of the previous generation such as Charles Bronson, Gene Hackman, Charlton Heston, and Clint Eastwood. ‘Martial Arts’ was its own section in video rental stores, often next to the horror section as gloriously shitty (and often quasi-amateur) b-movie and direct-to-video releases like Enter the Ninja, Miami Connection, and Ninja III: The Domination as well as badly-dubbed Asian imports like Ten Tigers of Kwangtung, Five Element Ninjas and Riki-Oh: The Story of Ricky were much more violent and weird than the Hollywood mainstream. It wasn’t long before every action hero and pretty much anyone involved in a fight on television and in the movies was able to break out top-drawer fighting techniques without breaking a sweat or ever appearing to train. Of course Van Damme and Segal can turn every encounter with a bad guy into a death ballet; that’s fine and no one has a problem accepting that. But the sheer absurdity of a non-stop stream of anachronistic ninja clans proliferating in contemporary crime syndicates and police departments quickly overstayed its welcome, and guns once again emerged as the cinematic death tools of choice, mainly because any idiot can shoot ninjas dead without much hassle. Action film and television retreated from action stars being preternatural jujitsu masters with convenient helicopter piloting skills to their mastering an amorphous, generic, rapid-edit fighting style suitable for exploitation within a broad range of distinctive genres: witness the culturally-indistinct fight styles presented in modern James Bond films, superhero franchises, revenge films like Taken, or the Jason Bourne series. Suddenly, every IRL wimpy non-fighter from Matt Damon to Scarlett Johansson to the old man version of Harrison Ford can be made to look like a kickass fighter. Perhaps it’s even more ludicrous to cast Liam Neeson as a Dad assassin than it is to use ninjas in a bank heist, but fuck it. For big-budget entertainment, production efficiencies have always punched logic in the head.

stellar power lines
Wimpy white people kicking ass on screen is one legacy of 1980s martial arts culture. Another was its influence on hiphop, figuring not among the fashion trends of street culture and the videotape fetishism of mainstream ‘90s rap, but also in the ritualised emcee battles which replicate ninjitsu agility and Shinto philosophies in language. And of course, a videogame genre emerged focused on martial combat, staring with traditional martial arts before exploring more fantastic, cartoon-like themes, and this is where my virtual fist most often struck my brother’s virtual face.
stay down
International Karate is a one- or two-player arcade-style fighting game which came out for most home computer platforms in 1987, the same year that the first Street Fighter game hit arcades. Unlike that most famous of videogames, IK does not provide a health meter for fighters. Action follows the rules of tournament karate, in which two fighters (three in the updated International Karate+) score points adjudicated by referees who halt the fight after each strike. Animations for the original 8-bit releases are detailed and evocative, and hit-boxes are pixel-accurate. Bonus rounds between fights allow players to defend themselves from balls and bombs. Button mashing will work to some degree, but players will have to strategically place and time their attacks and defences in order to defeat more challenging opponents. Punches and kicks which land are awarded either half or a full point, with three points winning the match. Being an early fighter which adheres to The Karate Kid rules, there aren’t any combos or advanced moves to learn. To strike your opponent or defend yourself, you press the only button and move the joystick in one of its eight directions. Someone has to go down before the timer runs out, you know the drill.

IK+ motivates everyone to greatness
The 1987 UK release from System 3 on Commodore 64 (released the following year as Chop N Drop by Activision in North America) is perhaps the most well-known version of the game, thanks to pirating but more importantly because of Rob Hubbard’s fantastic score, which fully exploited the famously idiosyncratic SID chip in the C64. The 1988 releases for 16-bit Atari and Amiga computers feature significantly upgraded sound, graphics, and animation, with detailed character sprites and very fluid motion, although Hubbard’s score was replaced with the kind of percussion-heavy ‘80s midi funk which soundtracked movies plotted around Kawasaki ninja attacks. 

Two-player videogame duels are the oldest form of digital games, with the earliest games relying on human players to provide gameplay when artificial intelligence and enemy strategy algorithms were non-existent or in their infancy as processor and storage requirements for artificial opponents were too high. (For comparison, IBM’s Deep Blue chess machine – the first to beat a grandmaster human opponent in 1997 – used 30 central processors and 480 specialised chips). Once artificial opponents did start to appear in digital games, intelligence routines were often simulated rather than actually computed in real time, leading to the necessity for pattern recognition of enemy behaviour to succeed in games (and infinite play once the patterns are learned). Of course, games which were not played in real time but were instead turn based, such as many strategy and role-playing games, could more readily implement intelligence routines. The inevitable progression of computational capability has allowed for the utilization of increasingly complex intelligence routines. The first digital game – 1962 mainframe-based Spacewar – predated arcades and was an academic marvel of violent destruction as grad students and professors took turns lasering the living shit out of each other. Spacewar came to arcades in the form of 1971’s Galaxy Game and Computer Space. Many of the early and mid-70s arcade games such as 1972’s Pong, 1975’s Gun Fight, and 1976’s Barricade required two players to operate, as did Atari VCS launch title Combat. As computer hardware continues to develop, digital game players have continued to engage in multiplayer mayhem, although in the 1980s and early ‘90s competitive social gaming occurred more often in arcades than in the home. The release of Doom in 1993 and Warcraft in 1994 inaugurated a new era of competitive multiplayer gaming, a phenomenon centred on networked digital computers and thus unavailable to consoles, which were limited to fight games until the release of Halo on the Xbox in 2001. For most people, multiplayer digital gunplay is a 2000's thing. Social gaming in the ‘80s and ‘90s was dominated by fight games.

Not every threeway goes according to plan
So you kick and punch your friends to beat and humiliate them for hours of joyful play. Most everyone likes that. My brother and I certainly did, at least a few thousand rounds in International Karate+. We never did fight all that much IRL, at least in the ‘punch that bastard’ kind of way, or more accurately we stopped fighting once my little brother got big enough to punch me back. “Just hit him, he’ll stop,” my Dad always told him when he cried about me bullying him for toys or the TV remote or just because teenage boys try being assholes before hopefully figuring out other strategies. And so one day at the age of twelve and a height over six feet he did punch me back and it hurt so I stopped being a low-level dickneck bully. Fights became verbal, markers of quick wit with a touch of emotional abuse, more like the verbal swordplay of the Monkey Island games than anything approaching real violence.

the sound effect is pain
Videogame fighting was a good release for us, and so we moved on from International Karate to Palace Software’s amazing Barbarian and Barbarian II (which uses the two-player combat style for a one-player game), published by Epyx as Death Sword and Axe of Rage respectively in North America, but nobody bought or pirated those versions because everyone in North America was apeshit Nintendo and the most widely-pirated software came from European cracking groups. Barbarian was amazing not only because of the amazingly cheesy mid-80s fantasy cosplay box art (cleaned up for America, of course), but also because you could decapitate your opponent at any time, bypassing their health meter. A grumpy lizard would then swear at you before cleaning up the corpse and kicking the head off-screen. Slick shit. Somehow I could destroy my brother at this game, which gave me an unfounded confidence betrayed by the next decade of fighting each other.

With occasional diversions into Thai Boxing (which was amazing because between rounds your trainer would clean up your bloody, broken face like a window washer), Knight Games, and the brutally hilarious Blood ‘N’ Guts, my brother and I chopped off each other’s heads well into 1991 before the Street Fighter II arcade machine came out and everybody lost their collective shit for the next decade of game design clones. There was a very brief interest in Tongue of the Fatman, largely because of the box art and surreal fighters, but the game itself was kind of shit. After SF2 every fight game used combo moves, hopefully dozens of them, and allowed for character selection from a collection of mutant cartoon weirdos and psychopaths. Of course, as consoles began to totally dominate the digital game market by the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, computers suddenly weren’t the best place for fighters. Other than decent SF2 and Mortal Kombat ports, the only decent fighting game to come out for computer systems in the ‘90s was the excellent manga-inspired giant robot fighter One Must Fall 2097, a shareware title which thoroughly outclassed its big-budget corporate competition by incorporating equipment upgrades and RPG-style skill system elements.

It was with the robots that my fights with my brother ended: a Tuesday in September 1995, just back from school, and my brother challenged me in OMF2097 with a new joystick he picked up. Overconfident from almost a decade of punching my brother’s virtual face really murdered, distracted from videogames by a bullshit sixteen-month attempt at being a musician in a string of unheard weirdo bands, I took up his $10 challenge that he could beat me left-handed with his eyes closed and turned away from the screen. Of course you can’t win, fucker. I’ll destroy you in 90 seconds or less you dumb... and I lost without landing a punch in slightly more than thirty-one seconds. Pay me, bitch! was the last thing I remember before figuring out that in addition to being blind and handicapped my brother was also drunk and realizing suddenly that I actually hate motherfucker fight games.

Sunday, January 18, 2015

Let's Play... Surgeon Simulator 2013

Surgeon Simulator
2013, Bossa Studios

originally played on PC

So I always wanted to be a surgeon. Along with astronaut it was one of the job boxes I ticked off every year in that big blue book parents in Ontario used to track their kids' progress through school in the 1980s. Another consumer memory brought to us by the fine folks at Jostens. Of course, this ambition disappeared as I grew older and came to realise that I wanted to memorise songs and books instead of physiology and stress-relief methodology. So the humanities and a long life of poverty for me, then. Both my parents worked in health care, and my brother and I spent a lot of time after school wandering around the hospital waiting for the age of ten so we could stay home alone as latchkey kids. You see a lot of things wandering around a hospital unsupervised. Patients in various states of recovery are obviously interesting to a young kid raised on horror films, but so are the small dramas traced into hospital waiting rooms and hallways along with family members, worry for loved ones made supine like a struggling dog by the rules of the institution. Parents annoyed by their loss of control to institutional processes, fighting with doctors and nurses for tiny scraps of hopeful good news and just a quick glimpse and please maybe let me hold their hand. Friends visiting the infirm and the elderly who only wish them to leave if they didn’t want them there in the first place. Spouses hiding their frustration and loneliness as their love for each other strains and sometimes breaks in front of a quiet public. Sublime horrors of bodies objectified, flesh drawn and quartered to find out what’s wrong, what needs fixing, a painful and necessary violence fundamental to understanding. Like Councillor Krespel in Hoffman’stales, medicine must often destroy its object of study in order for understanding. A poisonous cure, to be sure. Walking through the hallways and backrooms of the hospital alone or with my brother, sometimes we would see something very graphic indeed. Seeing a few fingers in plastic wrap abandoned teaches a person that medicine is an abstraction as much as it is an abjection. Distanciation and humour are the only recourse for sanity.

Of course, to deal with all of the domestic trauma, heartbreaking grief and loss, as well as the mountains of gore, many people who work in medicine adopt a form of gravedigger’s humour in order to compartmentalise the abject and the horrific in order to maintain their capabilities on the job. Ankle-deep in blood and crying loved ones, you smile and enjoy the smells as you wipe blood across your forehead. Metaphorically, of course, as hygiene must be maintained, in Canadian hospitals at least. I’ve noticed this attitude in friends who are cops as well – humour used to paint over otherwise horrible experiences. A friend of mine who drives ambulances spent the first day in his job cleaning up brain matter from the highway to Toronto before coming over for a birthday party for my brother and revolting every single one of the guests by not having changed his uniform first. I’m covered in brains. You’d think I would have had the bright idea to change, he said before forgetting his Asian alcohol allergies and passing out in a closet upstairs after drinking the neck of a Molson Canadian. Similarly, my father edited film and video for medical procedures, sometimes while we ate supper in the living room. The likeness of my mother’s lasagna to the fleshy subdermal parts of the inner leg was a constant source of amusement for him.

don't tell me you don't want to shake his head around, because you do
Surgeon Simulator 2013 (2013) brings this laisez-faire attitude to home medicine games. While most games dealing with health care are managerial simulations – SimHealth (1994) and Theme Hospital (1997) being the most obvious examples – or cheap licensing entries in film and television-based transmedia franchises, such as ER (2005), Grey’s Anatomy: The Video Game (2009), and House M.D. (2010), there are some examples of games which try, realistically or otherwise, to depict actual medical procedures. Life & Death (1988) and Life & Death II: The Brain (1990) are perhaps the most well-known iterations, having been compiled on numerous shovelware releases in the early CD-ROM years. This was in fact the manner in which I came to play both games, for as a farewell present when our family moved to Southern Ontario my father’s co-workers at the hospital gave him a CD-ROM drive for our fancy new 386. A collective effort in financing, as these drives were very expensive back in the day (starting around $1,000) and quite the gift. Within computer geek circles, our machine was the envy of everyone around for almost a year. Except for libraries and universities, nobody had a CD-ROM drive in 1991. The technology was so new that in order to fully experience what it had to offer, sound routed from the drive had to be sent to a mixer along with the output from the computer's sound card. Likewise, publishers had little understanding of how to properly use the medium, either filling titles with uselessly small (75x75 or sometimes 130x100) video clips often repurposed from extant video media such as television and home video, or compiling as many non-related games as they could get their copyright licenses on. A database medium, then, and unless dictionaries and encyclopaedias are of particular interest to you, nothing interesting came out on CD-ROM until Sierra started releasing ‘talkie’ versions of games such as King’s Quest V: Absence Makes The Heart Go Yonder! (1990) and Space Quest IV: Roger Wilco and the Time Rippers (1991), quickly followed by Interplay titles such as Star Trek 25th Anniversary (1992) and J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, Vol. I (1990). More often than not, however, such exciting multimedia versions of popular games were marred by their decidedly non-professional voice acting, often invoking the indie DIY spirit of the time and using members of the programming team in character voice roles. It should be noted that this dynamic of economic necessity forcing the conscription of terrible voice acting from programmers is different than occurred when designers purposely put themselves into their games, as Chris Jones did when he took an increasingly prominent role as the character Tex Murphy in a series of adventure games from Mean Streets (1989) through The Pandora Detective (1996). Shudder-inducing as thespian delusions, these early non-professional multimedia experiments are often fantastic if appreciated in the right spirit. Of course, some of these releases were very well done indeed; the CD-ROM editions of Interplay's Star Trek adventures were in face the last collective effort from the cast of the original television series.

the most realistic four-colour surgery simulator ever released
The most popular use of the medium, however, was as a shovelware platform on which to dump a variety of unpopular titles along with a marginally-popular one. And so Life & Death came into my possession along with Beyond the Black Hole (1989), Bruce Lee Lives (1989), The Chessmaster 2000 (1986), and Cribbage King / Gin King (1989). By far the best part of Life & Death – and in likelihood actual medicine – is the screaming. Patients scream when you poke their sore spots during observations and when you perform surgery without administering an anaesthetic. Rendered in monophonic 8-bit sampled bliss and reproduced to everyone’s amazement using the famously crappy and useless pc speaker, the screaming in Life & Death is alone worth an hour of your drunken time at a party with friends. Life & Death is a fairly realistic simulation of these procedures. Players are expected to be very meticulous in performing the steps necessary to complete these operations. Ultimately, while enjoyable, the game presents players an often frustrating experience of the OCD required by modern health care practitioners as players slowly learn how to do things properly through trial and error, as well as reference to the game’s manual and in-game commentary on player performance.
surgery is definitely for the OCD set
Of course, the screaming stops should you ever choose to perform an operation properly. The game offers two surgical procedures, appendicitis and aneuritic aorta, in a small attempt at educational gameplay. Despite  the use of four-colour CGA mode for the game’s original DOS release,the presentation and simulation aspects of the game are remarkably realistic for the time and have yet to be matched in any other commercial release.

Surgeon Simulator 2013 is frustrating for quite the opposite reason. Basically a cartoon exercise in fun with physics, Surgeon Simulator tasks players with performing a variety of challenging and totally unrealistic surgical procedures. Players are in direct control of the virtual surgeon’s hands, thus providing a level of haptic complexity to the interface which guarantees that players will fuck up even the simplest of gestures, such as grabbing and maintaining a hold of an object. Don’t be turned off by the fact that the game doesn’t include a tutorial, as the fun of playing the game isn’t really about completing the challenges offered to players, but rather about enjoying the comic mayhem inherent to amateur surgery.
drunk interface. drunkterface?
The game drops players right into the matter with heart surgery as the first mission with little warning and a gleeful disregard for patient safety. Indeed, black humour runs throughout the game, evidenced not only by the playful main menu, which allows players not only to answer the phone and write on a notepad but also to play computer games (I should note here my own history with physicians who were early enthusiasts in digital gaming) and most importantly launch everything off the doctor’s desk in a flailing attempt to learn the game’s interface. Fun involves the comic mischief caused by the juxtaposition of the seriousness of surgical medicine and the autistic inability of the surgeon to control his or her own limbs, and also by the impossibility of the game to operate as a simulation of anything approaching actual medical procedures. Bones are sawed off and organs are removed and placed wherever there is room, all with no regard whatsoever for how these pieces would ever be put back together again ‘in real life’. Unlike in Life & Death, play is only concerned with opening patients up; the sawed-off bones and scooped-out organs don’t need to be reconnected after the procedure. While the game offers a variety of scenarios, such as performing heart surgery in the back of an ambulance while the doors flail open and elements of the surgery theatre continually fall out, or completing an alien autopsy / transplant in zero gravity on a space station. Of course, I have only been able to complete a few of the game’s surgeries and have not unlocked the full game.

careful... careful...
Fundamentally, Surgeon Simulator 2013 is a game of frustration, as controlling two human hands by means of the mouse and five keys on the keyboard is much more difficult than would initially appear. Simple movements are made exceedingly difficult as in a sense players relearn or recalibrate their hand-eye coordination. Of course, this leads to a variety of fun achievements on Steam, such as flashing metal horns or flipping off the patient before abusing his face like he’s in a Three Stooges routine, or successfully completing surgery after stabbing yourself in the arm with enough drugs to start hallucinating. This kind of fun only improves when playing with multiple intoxicated friends.
great, now you've hopped yourself up on goofballs
Sadly, the PC version has yet to be updated with the hilariously oppositional co-op mode from the PS4 version, in which each player operates one of the surgeon’s hands. Also sadly missing is the screaming. But the fact that as a surgeon I can inject myself with drugs and go to space while smacking the patient’s head around like Curley before telling him to fuck off and pulling out all of his organs with a hammer and replacing them with empty plastic water bottles and my watch makes me a very happy person indeed.

Sunday, December 28, 2014

Let's Play... Pool of Radiance



Pool of Radiance
SSI, 1988

originally played on Commodore 64, Amiga

I hesitated before starting this one again. Just look at the simultaneously beautiful and hideously atrocious box cover art and you’ll quickly understand what I mean. The beauty is perhaps less obvious: a classic Clyde Caldwell fantasy painting, an artist well-known to all Dungeons & Dragons tabletop fans, depicting a standard male power aesthetic found all over the best and worst of fantasy art and culture. Metal and man-hair shine with equal precision. The sword half-poised like a cock. The dragon oddly feminised. Taken as a whole, these elements betray both a nerdy powerlessness and a strangely appealing masculine power trip fantasy, one which fully grabbed hold of me as a precociously impressionable twelve-year old. Of course, like all infantile compulsions the negative connotations specifically associated with ‘heroic fantasy’ iconography fully outweigh any sense of aesthetic pleasure derived from what is at best a skilled technical ability which readily evokes a sense of perpetual nostalgia within a certain kind of game consumer and a certain kind of revulsion from most normally everyone else.

an early-game encounter
Interestingly enough, my own experience with this box cover art was not enabled by consumption, at least not in its official capacity. My father brought Pool of Radiance (1988) home one day, copied from a physician friend at work on the basis of the game program being the largest ever released for the Commodore 64: four double-sided 5 ¼” floppy disks. Game piracy was of course not exceptional behaviour in the 1980s. Games were passed around with friends at school on a nearly weekly basis. At this point in the computers-as-pedagogical-tools debate, school computers were entirely misunderstood by teaching staff who had obviously never been trained to use them, so any use by students was viewed by teachers as an appropriate display of computer science aptitude. Friends and I would sit at the back of the classroom copying and playing games and receiving straight A’s.

The more official procedure for our family (i.e.: condoned by parents) to acquire games was to go through ‘The List’, a document dozens of dot matrix computer-printed pages long. My brother and I would select from The List the games we would want to play. My dad’s physician friend would then charge according to how many disks were used, not how many games were copied. I’m not sure whether he actually owned all of the games that were on his list, but he had a whole lot of them. Marriage and kids had not stopped this workaholic emergency room doctor from acquiring a large library full of games. My father brought me over there a few times, and I was instantly amazed by the bookshelves which housed games to the ceiling in nice-smelling oak with brass and silver accent lighting. Treated like a fine library, the doctor’s game collection was my projected masculine fantasy. He must have been buying fifteen games a week for the three different computers set up in his study. On each of the few times I was there, I was allowed to rifle through the boxes and play some of the games released only for IBM and Apple ][, systems far too expensive in the 1980s for my family. Distinct from game consoles, home computers allowed full access to media production technologies such as disk creation. In fact, the early history of home computing was almost entirely informed by a culture of software sharing and copying, as many of the computer clubs functioned essentially as game swap meets. Over the course of the 1980s and early 1990s, the industry had to educate consumers to convince them not to copy their floppies. As a barrier to piracy, a lot of the games employed off-disk copy protection in the form of manuals, maps, charts, printed graphics, and code wheels which were often creatively integrated into gameplay. With the doctor, of course, these materials involved additional fees. Ancillaries, he called them. In addition to using four double-sided disks, Pool of Radiance required two large manuals full of expository text and information about the gameworld, and a code wheel. Needless to say, the game was quite expensive to copy.

educating the masses about the dangers of software piracy
The SSI gold box games were particularly important to my formative videogame habits: extended play sessions, meticulous procedures for backing up save files, attention to detail with a forensic and autistic focus, a logical strategization of progress, and meticulous documentation – admittedly a skill developed playing other RPGs which habitually required players to create their own maps and log narrative and quest information. Ultimately, as a result of the cost of pirating complex games such as CRPGs, and the fact that by the age of twelve I was in receipt of a fairly regular income stream, I purchased a copy of every other gold box game I played. From age seven I had been delivering newspapers, and by twelve I had begun to make a profit buying and selling comic books, a bedroom industry in which I thrived until adults started paying attention to comics as investments and by 1992 had priced me out of even trying. Before Curse of the Azure Bonds (1989) and the other gold box games, however, it was Pool of Radiance which captured everything I could call my attention. My father brought the game home, showing off the disks and wondering in amazement about “where it will all end”. Of course, he meant computer technology and wasn't challenging me to complete the game before he did. As a kid I didn’t think my parents played games, maybe due to the fact that they would sometimes get mad when my brother and I played games instead of doing “something outside”. My mom certainly never bothered with them, and it wasn’t until I was older that my father admitted to having enjoyed Douglas Adams games Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (1984) and Bureaucracy (1987) and strategy games such as Ocean Trader (1983), Trader Trilogy (1982), Starflight (1986), and Elite (1986). So he came home from work and was immediately excited that I was immediately excited by the game. In retrospect, this enthusiasm made sense. A few months prior, my religiously-inclined mother and I had gotten into a huge fight after she had found my first-edition copies of the Dungeons & Dragons Dungeon Masters Guide and Deities and Demigods. Fuelled by a trend in religious hatred against D&D quite popular at the time, my mother had decided to destroy an admittedly satanic-looking book and one which quantified the gods of world religion along with their occult rituals, which I had recently acquired from a friend’s older brother as part of my transition, along with every other D&D player my age, from Dungeons & Dragons to Advanced Dungeons & Dragons. I never forgot the look on my father’s face as he watched my mom tear the pages out of the books, and it was this look which later made me think that he knew what he was doing when he brought home Pool of Radiance, the first official adaptation of D&D for home computers.

glorious tactical, turn-based combat
Having recently completed The Bard’s Tale III: Thief of Fate (1988), another game I had purchased on my own with four-and-a-half weeks of paper route money, I learned Pool's interface very quickly. Enraptured by the character generation screen, among the more advanced for CRPGs at the time, my brother and I spent the entire first night with the game making characters and printing them off in case we wanted to use them in tabletop D&D adventures. Admittedly, I think these characters were only used once in an actual D&D session, but as every RPG player knows that is entirely beside the point. Affect in role-playing games involves fetishising a numerical matrix which qualifies a character within the game world. The numbers tell the whole story of what can be accomplished in the game; the actual narrative or plot is entirely secondary.

perhaps the first game which allowed LGBT characters 
role-playing options add narrative complexity
This being said, Pool of Radiance deploys a rather complicated narrative form for its time. While not exhibiting the narrative depth or complexity of text adventures, Pool utilised a fair number of narrative text passages which guided an admittedly wholly pedestrian and routine fantasy RPG plot. But as with many media texts from the early days in a medium’s history, we must properly contextualise what the game actually accomplishes rather than dismiss it for the many things it does not. At several points in the game, players can make choices which branch the narrative slightly or bestow useful items. While certainly not demonstrating the narrative significance or complexity of Balder’s Gate (1998) or The Witcher II: Assassins of Kings (2011), Pool of Radiance does experiment with the hack and slash mechanics which characterise a significant portion of gameplay. And what mechanics these are. The game presents a complex tactical combat system modelled on actual D&D rules and with elements not only from SSI’s previous RPGs such as Wizard’s Crown (1986) and the Phantasie (1985 – 1987) series, but also from the company’s many legendary war and strategy game series. Almost anything that you could think of doing could be accomplished in the Pool of Radiance game engine, or so it seemed to us at the time.

encounter with the end boss
While slow, the advanced, turn-based combat presented players with (at the time) a rather extensive amount of tactical possibilities. Unlike most of my friends, I was a dedicated computer game player who didn’t have a console at home except an old Atari VCS and an entirely ignored Odyssey 2. For the entire height of the Nintendo boom in the late 80s, most people I knew made fun of me and my family for not having a NES at home. My brother rectified this situation in 1990, but before that my NES time was limited (admitted not quite the right term in this context, as this was the time of extended weekend sleepovers) to time spent at friends’ houses. I took their abuse in stride because I knew that there were things that computers could do in games that consoles simply could not do. Because of piracy, computer gamers always had access to far more games than even rich kids with consoles. The much greater memory capacity of most home computers allowed a far greater complexity to programming code and resultant game design while allowing greater graphical prowess. Most importantly, computers had floppy disks and cassette drives used to save information. As a result, many computer games were designed around gameplay ideas necessitating the tracking and deployment of player data, be it as a record of gameplay behaviour or outcomes or to save a player’s progress. They often presented a different framework for gameplay and presented entirely different ideas to players than did the infinitely more popular console games, extending over weeks or months instead of single sessions, and adjusting themselves to player activity and altering their worlds as a result of player behaviour. Additionally, computer games could utilize highly advanced control interfaces and control interactions allowed by keyboards in addition to console-standard joysticks and trackballs. As fewer people had access to computers in the home, these games tailored themselves to niche rather than mass markets. Some genres such as strategy and flight simulation didn't even appear on console games until very recently.

Accordingly, I used to love showing off to my friends aspects of computer games that console games simply couldn’t do – the personalization and content creation functions, the extensive graphics and gameplay options. Many of these differences existed with Pool of Radiance. Players have control over the appearance of their characters throughout the game. Hundreds of different inventory items are available, allowing for extensive customization. One of my friends was absolutely amazed that enemies could be killed to the point where they were cleared out of an area in the game, and then the game machine could be switched off and the game resumed later with these same areas still clear of enemies. Two months later, he convinced his mom to buy him an Amiga; although Pool of Radiance had not yet been released for that system, rumours were that the best version of the game would be for Amiga but he would have to wait and in the meantime he had Hillsfar (1989), Heroes of the Lance (1988), Defender of the Crown (1986), Blood Money (1989), Dungeon Master (1988) and every other game that was completely amazing on Amiga. Indeed, this minor procedural detail of housekeeping enabled by player data save technologies is the entirety of Pool's plot: clear an area of the city before moving on to the next one and ultimately defeating the end boss, who in this case is a rather fearsome dragon not unlike the one which graces the cover art. Essentially, players are the city's cleaning service; gameplay is precisely a record of this process of 'cleaning'. Despite a few superficial RPG aspects, there was simply no way for console games such as The Legend of Zelda (1986) or Dragon Warrior (1986) to operate in a similar manner. Code passwords weren't the same. No matter what you did on the consoles, the monsters always came back.

exploring the city, Amiga version
obviously
More to the point, however, this style of gaming was not only appealing to math-heavy, idiot-savant youth such as me and my friends, it was also very practical in terms of being a group gaming activity. Playing the game in a large group of people, individuals can make their own choices about a character, and the visual presentation makes everyone feel as though they are hovering around a digital boardgame instead of a computer monitor. Strategic decisions are complex and variable, allowing numerous opportunities for partnership and disagreement with other players as they think through their party’s situation. While I did end up finishing Pool of Radiance alone at home after several months, I also played a significant portion of the game with five friends at school as well as each other’s houses. As the game allowed six characters in the party, everyone got to create and play their own guy (please note that no girls were included in this group of twelve-year old CRPG fans, either in real life or in the game). Everyone had a copy of the save disk, and disagreements would break out when someone would play alone at home without input from other players, thus disrupting our collective progress. Complex social interactions emerged from our play, but I'll leave such observations to researchers more qualified than I in anthropological study.

sweet tactical combat on the Amiga
We didn’t finish the game together, but we did manage about half of it before everyone got distracted by other things in their lives, or maybe other games, I choose not to remember.

Sunday, February 23, 2014

Technology In Practice -- comprehensive exam -- 24-hour essay 3

TECHNOLOGY IN PRACTICE

Question Answered: #2 Do what are described as ‘new media’ technologies entail ‘new theory’ to account for their possible effects? Describe the extent to which ideas of the ‘posthuman’ inform this debate.

Early studies into communications systems centred upon the transmission models developed by Lasswell (1948) and Shannon and Weaver (1949), which positioned message senders and recipients in relation to a medium enabling communication. Messages, consisting of signs operating within a language of connotation, are encoded onto a medium by a sender to provoke specific ‘meaning’ when successfully decoded by the recipient. Encoding is informed not only by the intention of the sender, but also by the nature of the medium. In a manner akin to Norbert Weiner’s (1948) conception of cybernetic machines, the unsuccessful receipt of messages, manifesting as noise, is accommodated by the system in order to improve the chances of successful communication. Existing as both a linguistic (semantic) process and a material instantiation, media of transmission thus involves both the technological and the institutional within themselves. Robert Babe (2000) recognizes this duality as reflecting a distinction between the arts (cultural studies) and the social sciences (political economy) (18-19). Conceptions of media originating with Stuart Hall begin to displace these earlier models. Hall’s concern was to expand the potential for agency on the part of message recipients (audiences). Audiences were not passive vessels into which the content of communications processes was poured. Hall argues that the traditional conception of the communication process as a loop is limited due to the linear simplicity of its constituent feedback systems. Instead, he offers a model, based in Marx’s Grundrisse and in Capital, which conceives of communication as a “process in terms of a structure produced and sustained through the articulation of linked but distinctive moments – production, circulation, distribution/consumption, reproduction.” (1980 128). Hierarchies of meaning relative to what Hall calls the “dominant cultural order” may be invoked at each stage in this process, and are neither “univocal nor uncontested” (134). Thus, the process of communication between sender and audience involves a discursive relationship in which the decoding or reception of an encoded message is a spectrum of consensus which provokes “social practices if the circuit is to be both completed and effective.” Reception of a message, therefore, involves performative rules “which seek actively to enforce or pre-fer one semantic domain over another” (134). Hall’s examination of television in “Encoding/Decoding” (1980) illustrates this idea. While institutional structures inform the production of television shows, the system of audience ratings foundational to commercial television serves to position the audience within a hierarchy of relational strategies which both enable and disable the degree of agency they can express within this system.
Fundamentally, ‘new media’ challenge older conceptions of media due to the technologies which enable them. Old media can be understood to adhere to older understandings (i.e., theory) of their operation for the simple reason that such understandings reflected the technologies which enabled them. Print and broadcast media are both defined by the systems which create and distribute their ‘content’. Printing is a physical configuration of equipment for (re)production whose demands – for example, capital to purchase printers and the space necessary for their operation, the size and weight of the machinery itself – orient the medium around a hegemony of interests which can be understood as ‘sender’. Likewise, the cost of ‘content’ creation for broadcast media such as radio and television orients these media around sites of production and reception, whose “crucial ratio between them” will foster, according to Richard Dienst, “intense competition between interests, sometimes of outright class struggle” (1994 7). The printing (or broadcasting) house can be controlled, manipulated, and censored by means of the discretion and the interaction of these interests. The technical nature of these media (specifically, the exact manner in which electromagnetic frequency modulation is exploited to produce a signal which may be received) further substantiates the transmission model for communications media. New media, on the other hand, can be seen to fundamentally alter the manner in which sites of (re)production come to alter and inform the significations produced through communication (i.e., the ‘meaning’ of the message). Social media – as well as redeployments of ‘old’ media such as television and film – as enabled by digital mobile telephony signals a relocation of the printing house, as it were, into the site of media reception. The relocation alters the ontology of any notion of subjectivity, itself admittedly undermined by post-structural theories which do not figure ‘subjects’ to be either unified or coherent entities.
Video and computer games signal the most obvious need to develop the critical tradition in a manner not fully anticipated by older models of communication theory. Most importantly, the relationship between game designers, players, and games does not fully accord with models centred upon sender, receiver, and medium. Despite this fact, it is possible to trace a continuation of the distinction in the study of media into humanistic and empirical methodological approaches in contemporary criticism of videogames. The ontology of digital gaming centres on a player’s performance of a role as represented by their screen avatar (Waggoner 2009), regardless of whether or not this performance is explicitly rendered into a narrative (Galloway 2006, Aarseth 1997), within behavioural rules imposed by the game designers (Barr et al 2007). This process of player anticipation of the roles expected with the game is described as ritualistic by Gazzard and Peacock (2011) and others (Harviainen 2012, Harviainen & Lieberoth 2012). Depending on the nature of a particular game, this role can be as simple as staying “alive” or performing some other task abstracting the will of the player into the procedural confines of the game mechanics, or it can involve participating within a broad fictional narrative. In this latter instance, a good game can be defined as one in which both the game mechanics and the story are loved more or less equally. This relationship is inherent to every game, whether the avatar signifies an individual agent (a character or vehicle) or a function or process wherein the avatar is the game interface itself (strategy, puzzle games). As a hybrid between the interface for interaction with the medium and the principle site for the generation of player affect, the avatar is the means for instrumentalising the player’s will at the same time as it is itself often an object for the player’s affections (Wolfendale 2007). Simultaneously illusion, instrument, and interface, the avatar conflates the various conceptions of representation in digital media as defined by Lev Manovich (2001). It is in the capacity of information to be figured as an embodied virtuality that videogames and other ‘new media’ can be rationalized. Videogames are thus ultimately defined by player agency, which is itself determined by the spectrum of possible player activities allowed by the set of rules governing the activities made possible by a game world and the procedural interactions thus allowed and provoked. Indeed, the very nature of videogames as an interactive, computationally-bound medium ensures that players contribute to the significations generated by a game. However, this agency must be understood with the proper perspective. While the capacity for agency differs between games as player activity is restricted relative to the game rules, the affect which players feel toward the game world reflects their capacity to inflict their will upon it in a manner contingent with the procedural logic established by the game’s fiction and understood within the technological limitations which enable a game. Arguably, the ‘message’ of a game play event is not the ‘meaning’ of the event, but rather the affect produced in and among players.
In this capacity, it is easy for critics schooled in the close reading strategies typical of ‘old media’ to be misled by the superficial content depicted in videogames. ‘Violent’ videogames such as the Grand Theft Auto and Doom franchises, for example, are often condemned for the nature of the actions available to players.[i] While such criticism often implicates ‘violent’ games in the social problems they depict by desensitising audiences to actions contingent with those problems, this line of thinking ignores what Manovich describes as the variable, iterative, and transcodable nature of digital media (2001 27). The process of transcoding is illustrated by the adaptation of the shooting/killing mechanic from ‘violent’ videogames into other functions. Such games use the affect produced by game mechanics commonly associated with ‘violence’ – firing a weapon at an enemy in order to remove it from play – to provoke different significations relative to the affective relationship. For example, the Christian game Catechumen (2000) utilizes game mechanics consistent with the ‘first-person shooter’ genre, but alters the representational result of firing a gun from ‘killing an enemy’ to ‘saving a soul’. Similar substitutions manifest in Team Fortress 2 (2007) which, in certain instances, replaces all representations of violence with ‘cute’ versions (instead of blood and gore, exploding bodies are full of candy and ballons, for example), as well as Portal (2007), in which the player’s ‘gun’ transubstantiates (re-embodies) the player him- or herself into the role of the bullet in order not to ‘witness’ killing, as it were, but rather to solve problems involving spatial geometry and Newtonian physics, and the ‘dubstep gun’ in Saints Row IV (2013),which causes enemies to dance uncontrollably in time with music positioned as simultaneously diegetic and non-diegetic. In each instance, the affect produced by player activity is substantively the same despite antithetical representational differences between games. Communication theories which model ‘messages’ sent and received do not properly account for these differences.
Ian Bogost forwards a model in which video games can be rationalized in terms of the forms of the procedural rhetoric which they present to players. In Unit Operations (2006) and Persuasive Games (2007), Bogost presents a model for understanding videogames which merges the material and the symbolic. Grounding his thought in the mathematical philosophy of Alain Badiou, Bogost figures ‘the message’ of digital media to consist of a fundamental multiplicity centred upon processes of quantification and calculation. Unlike traditional communication models, this conception seeks to understand digital interactive media not in terms of broad systemic relationships but rather by means of the small procedural interventions which, viewed as an aggregate and in relation to each other, come to govern larger systems. Rather than being a relatively stable object whose meaning is causally informed by the recipient’s relation to the sender, digital media such as videogames operationalize this relationship in a dynamic manner. Audiences may respond in a capacity fully expected and thus invoked by the designer – ostensibly signalling the successful uptake of a message. However, as Michael Nitsche (2008) and Jesper Juul (2005) have elaborated, players may engage in actions not at all anticipated by game designers. Indeed, the very nature of digital media as interactive and iterative renders them as “systems open for transgressive, emergent gameplay” (Nitsche 28).The multiplicity of possible responses to a given digital ‘text’ suggests to Bogost that absolute meanings cannot be encoded into digital communication processes in the manner suggested by earlier communication models. Instead of invoking encoded meanings, “procedural rhetoric is particularly devoted to representing, communicating, or persuading the player toward a particular biased point of view” (Bogost, Persuasive Games 135) within the framework of a spectrum of possible player responses, the meaning of each response being conditioned by the relation of that response to the overall pattern of responses enabled by a particular operation.
Thus, it might seem natural to view the programming code produced by videogame designers as a quite literal manifestation of Hall’s communications model: a sender encoding a message which is received in a multitude of ways by an audience negotiating a hierarchy of dominant meanings. However, this interpretation does not allow for the reciprocal creation of videogame ‘messages’ among game producers and players. Many games, either formally or not, allow players to modify and create game elements which can, in turn, be objects for consumption by other players or cooption by the game’s ‘official’ designers. This activity can effect changes at both the ‘textual’ level (an object produced in a game may alter symbolic relations structured in/by the game) and the meta-textual level  in which the player operates (an object produced in a game can be sold for material value, i.e., money, in the ‘real’ world). Also, there are numerous instances where audience ‘misreadings’ – player activity which transgresses the manifest intention of game rules or willfully creates new gameplay activities unintended by game designers – have been subsequently incorporated as ‘official’ elements of the game. Espen Aarseth (2003), for example, outlines the manner in which the “rocket jump” – using the negative damage feedback produced by an exploding weapon to positively assist player mobility and enable access to areas within the game otherwise unavailable to players – was adopted by game designers as an ‘official’ characteristic of the ‘first-person shooter’ game genre after emerging from unanticipated player activity. Mia Consalvo (2007) examines the manner in which instances of purposefully-transgressive player activity indicate patterns of agency within a virtual space of value generation which she describes as “gaming capital” (4). In this capacity, cheating serves to reorient the relationships between games, game designers, and players. An incident often cited (Aarseth 2007) in this respect occurred when a programming bug in the multiplayer online game Ultima Online resulted in a player being able to murder the ruler of the game’s fictional world, a character who was controlled by the game’s principle designer and who served as an interface mechanic by which players were motivated toward specific goals and forms of gameplay; rather than punish the player for transgressing the established rules, the game designer chose to integrate this event into the game itself. Furthermore, some games are structurally enabled by player participation, or even the polyvalent interactions among numerous players in relation to each other, and do not present signification, as such, as distinct from this activity. As Castronova (2005) notes in relation to the economic effects of virtual economies, procedural rules highlighting the player generation of activity are especially prevalent in online games which involve thousands of players simultaneously. Not only do such games allow for player-generated sources of value generation, but the economies which have emerged in parallel with such games can be seen to structure and inform both gameplay and games themselves. Finally, game designers modify their output relative to feedback in terms not only of commercial market forces and players expressing their opinions, but also through the quantification of game play through the capturing of player activity from within the game itself, data which Normoyle et al (2012) refer to as player metrics. Indeed, despite the liberatory potential inherent to interactivity, videogames – and digital media, more broadly – enable a level of user surveillance only dreamed of by the hegemonic interests, such as television advertisers, foundational to the production of ‘old media’. This capacity for surveillance, coterminous with the processes of digital mediation, betrays the altered subjectivities which ‘new media’ present in challenge to theories of communication which predate their emergence.    
A degree of accord can be seen to exist between the medium of videogames, and ‘new media’ more generally, and conceptions of post- or transhumanism. Arguing in How We Became Posthuman (1999) that “the erasure of embodiment is a feature common to both the liberal humanist subject and the cybernetic posthuman” (4), Katherine Hayles postulates that computer simulation best instantiates the “embodied virtuality” which she presents in contradiction to the de-materialization of information fundamental to transmission theories of communication. Grounding her thought in Friedrich Kittler’s notion that “technologies of inscription are media when they are perceived as mediating” (26) and Donna Haraway’s conception of informatics as “technologies of information as well as the biological, social, linguistic, and cultural changes that initiate, accompany, and complicate their development” (29), Hayles adheres to the technological determinism of transmission theories while rejecting their linear and rigid structure. She presents a McLuhanesque argument in which the dematerialization of information – indeed, of all matter into information – is a partial illusion invoked by “an epistemological shift toward pattern/randomness and away from presence/absence”. The illusory nature of such processes of dematerialization obscures the impossibility of material reconstruction from disembodied information and minimizes the dynamic relationship between agents within a communication process. In other words, theories of communication which dematerialize information deploy incomplete models of the totality of relations between entities positioned within and acting upon an event of communication. This notion of pattern and randomness, echoing theories from quantum physics concerning the fields of probability which determine the material existence of the world, “fundamentally alter[s] the relation of signified to signifier” (30). Unlike the ‘message’ of the transmission model, informatics construct the signifier as a multitude, a “chain of markers bound together by the arbitrary relations specified by the relevant codes” in which “[a] signifier on one level becomes a signified on the next-higher level” (31). Access to the codes of signification, which Hayles describes as “pattern recognition” (39) whose literacy is enabled by “credentialing practices” (40; see also Stiegler 130), conditions and is conditioned by the technologies constituting the media environment. The development and interplay of these technologies mutually structures all entities within what Kittler’s (extrapolating from McLuhan) terminology could be described as a “media ecology”, including those individuals or agents which participate in the creation and consumption of media.
Hayles’s conception resonates with other invocations of posthuman subjectivity. By positioning the human subject in a determinate relation to the technological means by which phenomena exterior to unassisted perception are brought forth (in a Heideggerian manner) into human understanding, Don Ihde (2002) expands the realm of visuality to include all phenomenological events mediated by technological processes (43). In a manner similar to the interactive user participation foundational to ‘new media’ such as software and videogames, Ihde’s model for mediation inserts the observer into the syntax of the observed (60). Invoking Bruno Latour’s examination of instrumental subjectivity as stated in “On Technical Mediation” (1994), Ihde thus involves the interplay between technological determination and human agency in terms of a third space generated by the cohabitation of the two agencies (2002 93-95). This third space can be further described by Haraway’s conception of cyborgs as “a hybrid of machine and organism, a creature of social reality as well as a creature of fiction” (1991 149). Like Ihde and Latour, Haraway seeks to avoid understanding identities in essentialist terms. Identity can be understood, in a sense, as itself a cyborg hybridising agency and determination by exterior forces (161ff). ‘New media’ centred upon computational procedures also invoke an examination of the posthuman subject inaugurated by McLuhan’s (1994) conception of the media functioning as extensions of the human nervous system. Stiegler (2009) argues that such processes of exteriorization “constitute the industrialization of memory at all of its levels” (99). This externalized memory functions in thrall to developments related to speed. By eliminating delays and inefficiencies, the boundaries which interface processes of technological mediation from that which is mediated are dissolved as information becomes “inseparable from its organization” (107). Valuation of information in this context is informed by systems of access, which in turn constitute as subject those individuals or agents which create a ‘circuit of access’ with the information in question.
Paul Virilio’s (2000, 1997, 1989) notion of the contraction of the modern subject into patterns of communication quantised and defined by a society which increasingly internalises and normalises military functions traces the manner in which quantification serves as the vehicle for the realization and production of truth. While Virilio’s reliance on phenomenology disavows for him the authenticity of virtual worlds, other scholars (Hansen 2006, Fors & Jakobsson 2002, Murray & Sixsmith 1999) have successfully adapted phenomenological methodology to the study of virtual worlds and ‘new media’. Numbers are the principle tools by which subjects come to understand and love their own bodies and those of others. Bodies are measured and rationalised in order to improve weaknesses and maximise strengths, and to define subjects within a social and political hierarchy. For Virilio, quantification is a means of visibility which reveals the truth of an object or event to be nothing more than the tautological result of a logistical apparatus (the processes and technologies of rational humanism) which instrumentalises such information into functions allowing possession and control. Predictions about the future can then be made based on a linear extension from these numerically-constituted entities, a process which Virilio equates to a gun sight targeting the destruction of an enemy in the future (1989; see also Crogan 2008, 158-9). In this capacity, processes of quantification and calculation can be understood to extend a haptic character to vision and visibility. Calculation grants visibility to the invisible as unknown data – future events, probable outcomes, ‘hidden’ truths – is extrapolated from what is known for the purposes of administration and control. This conception of visibility originating as a military technology enabled by calculation has direct parallel with digital gaming, which often fetishises and quantifies representations of violence and often deploys military conquest as a gameplay mechanic. For Virilio, synthetic optics enabled by computerization and calculation permit “the relative fusion/confusion of the factual (or operational, if you prefer) and the virtual” signaled by “the ascendancy of the ‘reality effect’ over a reality principle already largely contested elsewhere” (1994 60).
As a conclusion to this present brief examination, the example of computer role-playing games (CRPGs) will serve to tersely illustrate the manifest synergy between human and interface for the creation and reception of media which have come to define the ‘posthuman’ as described above. CRGPs require the player to process and manage a significant amount of information, as the representation of nearly everything in the game – objects, the abilities and descriptive statistics of non-player characters and enemies, behavioural patterns – is quantified not only to allow the computer to execute game rules, but for that numerical representation to be presented to players who interpret this information to “numerically optimise” their avatar’s progression through whatever goals the game presents to the player. Extending Jenkins and Fuller’s (1995) suggestion that game avatars function akin to cursors in conventional computer interfaces, merging the will of the participatory user with the disembodiment of materiality into its virtual form as information, numerical representation can be understood as not only embodying the virtualized agents which it replaces but as mirroring the development of subjectivity within technological society. The conception of an embodied camera/interface, described as an apparatus by Morris (2002) and defined largely in terms of its virtuality rather than by the hardware components which allow player interaction (Jørgensen 2012), is best exemplified by games which use a first-person perspective and thus combine control of the representational output presented by the system with the means of interaction in a manner embodying an otherwise absent avatar. In this regard, the game interface of CRPGs is itself a self-referential component of play, acting somewhat like Manovich’s embodied virtual cameras in digital games, in which “cinematic perception functions as the subject [of games] in its own right” (2001, 85) by placing viewing and perspective functions under the player’s control. Avatars in CRPGs embody the player in a dual manner: visually onscreen, and through a numerical matrix which operates in a manner made explicit to the player and enframes in procedural terms the reified instantiation of the will of the player into the fabric of the medium in both material and immaterial terms. This conception of virtual embodiment, readily applicable to the theories of ‘new media’ informed by the posthuman subjectivities as outlined above, ably illustrates the manner in which the technologies which enable ‘new media’ serve to challenge traditional conceptions of communication processes.



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[i] See, for example, Cassie Rodenberg, “Grant Theft Auto V makes it cool to pick up – even kill – prostitutes” published 27 December, 2013 in The Guardian.