Death of the Avatar

NOTE: This one is best read as a follow up to the one about violence and the one about the next level of gaming. I am, admittedly, rather disappointed in this particular essay, but I want to see what others think before I scrap it entirely. Particularly the end—it smacks of being too preachy. You tell me. Also, there is a footnote. Just FYI.

Death of the Avatar

Roland Barthes in 'Death of the Author': “Writing is that neutral, composite, oblique space where our subject slips away, the negative where all identity is lost, starting with the very identity of the body writing” (Image, Music, Text, 1977). Replace 'writing' with 'gaming', and we have a new instance of death within video games--indeed, may very well be the only death within video games that matters. “[Gaming] is that neutral, composite, oblique space where our subject slips away, the negative where all identity is lost, starting with the very identity of the body [gaming].”

Much has been said about the almost irrelevance of dying within a game. At most, the gamer loses an hour or two of play time--but what, really, has been lost? Time spent in the forum of entertainment is, by some counts, a zero-sum game anyway. To the noncritical gamer, it certainly seems worse: full perdition of digital goods, experience, attainments. Catastrophic loss, perhaps, of a corpse that wasn't looted soon enough, as though the unreal has full bearing on the real. (Perhaps that's the line of where unreality and reality truly converge; when one cares enough to emote over the unreality, it has become a type of reality...even one of worth?) Even critical gamers suffer frustration, irritation, and disdain for 'wasted' time in the game when the avatar's death damns the progress, despite knowing that the original intent of the game was to do what so many poorly-trained apologists and conversation stoppers claim its purpose is: “It's only a game. It's for fun.” (A trite phrase that effaces importance and gives a false sense of purpose and completeness; in reality it does nothing but provide saccharine-coated justifications.) On the earliest level of meaning, the video game is for fun. And on that same level, death is designed to be a minor setback to the goals of the gamer.

Other articles and thoughts about gaming as a design concept have belabored the point of death being a difficult part of the game creation process. When looking at the tripartite theory of Stephen Dinehart and dramatic play, it becomes apparent that there is a need to consider death on all three levels:

• Narratologically: The death of the avatar is/is not an aspect of the narrative. Generally, this is frowned upon, as the death of the avatar results in the end of the gaming structure, and the (sometimes too) well-known 'Game Over' screen breaks over the gamer. Metal Gear Solid 4 manages to allow the screen to be a recapitulation (in the form of brief screenshots) of aspects of the recent narrative, though the end result is the same. The hero dies; the story ends tragically.
• Ludologically: The death of the avatar is/is not included in the way of play. Generally, it is what should be avoided, an obstacle that ought to be eschewed. Occasionally, a game will allow a restoration through mini-games (Prey, Batman: Arkham Asylum), animations (Prince of Persia), or respawn points (BioShock) obviating the nuisance of the 'Game Over' screen. The hero dies; perhaps this can be fun? More often, it's a punishment for a failure on the part of the gamer.
• Schediologically: The death of the avatar is/is not designed as integral. Beyond the 'Game Over' screen, the death is little more than a brief step to the GUI urging a reload. Many RPGs and action games (Devil May Cry, Final Fantasy, Fallout 3) suffer from limited schediological intent, sometimes giving scant seconds of 'death animation' before allowing the gamer to select the desired load slot or reloading the last checkpoint.

On just the surface, then, death has an impact on the gamer that is likewise superficial. Taken in context of Dinehart's tripartite theory, it could be argued that dying may be a crucial hurdle that must be overcome before a game can truly be overcome.*

Heidegger and Death

German philosopher Martin Heidegger, in Being and Time, argues that death is intensely personal--the most personal thing, since one can only die once. But the avatar can argue differently, since the death is not only immaterial to an avatar, but even more temporary than its existence--the precise opposite of the gamer holding the controller, whose brief existence will inevitably end in a permanent death (depending on one's religious beliefs). The ontological crisis of the avatar is dissimilar from the ontological crisis of the gamer. For the former, the greatest annihilation stems from the power switch, the permanent ejection of the disc. That is the most permanent of an avatar's temporary death (resurrection can occur with the flick of the selfsame switch, or be permanently instilled by loss of the disc or outright ignoring of the avatar by the gamer).

Example: By the second act of Metal Gear Solid 4, Old Snake has gained an additional expert on the other side of the codec--Rosemary, a character who first debuted in Metal Gear Solid 2. Rosemary can be contacted whenever the gamer needs additional information about how to best survive the trying circumstances that the aged Snake has to endure. Of particular interest here is a dialogue, rendered after dying and continuing without leaving the game in between. Snake opens up the conversation by saying that he has this feeling, like he has 'died once already.' Depending on the mode of death (gunshot, explosion), the dialogue will vary a little. The same approach comes from the analysis that Rosemary puts on the experience, chalking it up to Snake's instincts trying to preserve him in the battlefield. She even points at the distinct connection between the gamer and the avatar, asking Snake what he would do if he saw a teammate acting recklessly. “I'd tell him not to get himself--or me--killed.” She insists that “There's another 'you' inside your subconscious...” (or, more accurately, inside a living room) that doesn't want Snake to die. Again. In another conversation, Snake comes to the conclusion that his 'dreams of death' that have been plaguing him of late are showing him being shot, and he should be careful not to repeat the same mistakes that got him killed in his 'dream.'

Example: In Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time, the Prince can--and often does, depending on the skill of the gamer--make a fatal mistake. One of the schediological imperatives of the game is the capacity to rewind time, to redo and make accommodations to rectify any mistakes that lead to the demise of the Prince. If, however, too much of the time-warping sand is used, the Prince will meet a more final death. The narrative intersects with this nicely, because the voice over that comes on the continue screen reports a number of variations on the same theme: “That wasn't what I meant. Let me try again.” The avatar reasserts itself as the narrator of the game, explaining away the mistake not as an error on the part of the gamer whose skills have failed, but instead by asserting a narratological explanation--that the Prince, who is narrating the game, accidentally made up a story in which he dies.

These two examples are rare exceptions to the idea of how the avatar responds to death, and though they are interesting counterpoints to the general movement of death, there is another avenue that should be explored.

Violence and Death

My thoughts on violence within the game already partially explained, I want to push the overarching theme of games as the ideal that Wark proposes in Gamer Theory as a deeper exploration of what death may mean.

Herein lies another aspect of appeal that the game has within an entertainment-industrial complex (and Wark's military-entertainment complex being another tone on the same topic) such as the one that video games enjoy. Heidegger argues that death 'limits possibilities', a type of curtailing of what could be--and that, he posits, is what we hate and fear of death. But in the game, that limit is erased. There is almost endless possibilities, if not in a single game, then certainly within the genre as a whole. Possibility after possibility, each one being a new quasi-life, a new chance at rectifying past mistakes. This is the ideal into which the gamer wishes to tap, the recycling not of lives (though there is that, too), but of life, that the avatar can overcome what has only been beaten by the greatest of gods and heroes before. Perhaps that is why the Hero's Journey is such a predominant theme within the game, for it is taking Homer's Odyssey and letting each person participate as Odysseus, rather than simply hearing of him. When Odysseus crosses the river Styx in an attempt to learn how to return home, he journeys to the underworld--a place, almost by definition, the quickened cannot enter--before coming back to the living. This impossibility is made possible by the narration, and so for the gamer it is made possible vicariously through the game. There could be no leaders on the leaderboards were each death a permanent strike against the avatar. The perpetual respawning of avatars, particularly in FPSs, allows a perfection at a secular resurrection that is participatory and superficially permanent--though, in reality, it never lasts longer than the time of the match.

Death is cheapened (in both its positivity and its negativity) in games. There is a deterritorialization between the living analog and the 'living' digital, and the gap is never greater than when the latter shows its unkillableness--and, perhaps, superiority--over the former.

Death's Power

The last concept stems from this same idea, but on the inverse. The power that comes from being able to take away the 'life' of another is one that is rightly forbidden in society, yet arrives as the purpose of play within games. Michel Foucault is not alone in noting the ways that power becomes the very motivation for everything that humans strive for: power in work, in home, in conversation...and in play. The idea of being able to participate in the 'harmless violence' of the game, while simultaneously imbibing on the nectar of greater power (and significance?) is simultaneously addicting and eroding. The gamer needs more power (and thus levels up or somehow sharpens the necessary skills), all with the danger of letting what occurs become desensitizing, demoralizing, and devaluing. If anything, a recognition of the power of taking life should be a prerequisite for understanding the game.

*Not all games require death, just like how not all games require violence. However, the concept of a success/fail binary is locked within games. It is this binary that has to be the focus of the decisions on the game. What happens to a Sim in Sims 3 if food and sanitary conditions are refused? What happens to a Nintendog that is neglected? What happens to the avatar when the proposed objective fails? Those questions are the same that are explicit in the most basic concept of death in video games.

On Prince of Persia

NOTE: If you haven't played the most recent Prince of Persia games, please be aware that I will not tell you when spoilers erupt from the essay below. This blog post is full of them. Also, the formatting in this blog is different from how I actually wrote it. Don't worry about the lack of italics or bold or whatever. It just doesn't matter enough for me to change it. Also, there is a footnote at the end of the essay, but it is not hyperlinked. Chalk it up to laziness.

Blast From the Past

I have a distinct memory of my first experience with Prince of Persia. It was the original Apple II game from 1989, developed by Jordan Mechner. In it, the gamer controls the dynamic hero through a set of fiendishly difficult traps in an attempt to save the princess. Standard fare, by all counts. My memories are a bit blurry, in part because I was still very young. I don't think the game was new when I was first exposed to it, but even then I can't be sure. I do remember this:

I was at my friend's house. His dad was a casual gamer of the late '80s, and was instrumental in introducing me to a number of classic titles, including an animated 3-D chess game, an updated version of Pitfall (released for the Windows 95 OS) and the original Wolfenstein. What was remarkable to me, though, with PoP, was the difficulty I had (when I tried it) of simply playing the game. Jumps were tricky, requiring precise timing and endless practice.

There was a brutal time limit counting down, adding to the stress of the situation. Worse than that, with a keyboard full of potential buttons, I never knew what to press when stuck in a fencing match with one of the poor guards who was forced to keep me in my dungeon pit. I remember watching my avatar crouch over three possible vials, not knowing which one might be poisonous--and invariably finding that one, instead of the 'full life' vial I had been searching for. More than anything, though, I remember watching my friend's dad's hands tremble on the keyboard (he has a type of palsy that makes his hands twitch--it wasn't because of passion for the game or anything). That image has taken up a permanent residence in my mind.

Now, two decades later, I have just finished the latest Prince of Persia, a very interesting addition to the franchise. (This, to be clear, is the one that was released for the Xbox 360, PlayStation 3, and PC in 2008.) Though not as difficult as previous titles, I did find that my hands occasionally trembled on the controller--more from incontinent rage about 'the computer cheating' (an accusation that I level frequently at the PoP games) than anything else. Still, I found PoP to be fulfilling and worthwhile from both a ludological and narratological point of view.

Digging Deeper Through the Desert

There is a missed opportunity within PoP that bears reconciliation. This isn't accusatory, for the narrative told was told this way for a reason. Still, the possibility of what it could have been--indeed, the ghost of every murdered choice haunts us in this as in real life--should be considered.

Secondary NPC, primary character, Elika is the love interest, the moving force, and the exhausting gimmick of the game. As an NPC she is pure utility--useful for propelling the Prince as much as the plot, but little else. As primary character within the narrative, she is the motivation for the wall-runs and the numbing battles. As love interest she falls into a cliched deontological paradigm of being worth the sacrifice of the entire world. As the moving force, she operates as the encyclopedic expression of the diversity and richness of the world now Corrupted. As exhausting gimmick, she circumvents the conventions, providing a 'life-animation' instead of a 'death-animation' when the gamer fails.

The game's eponymous Prince has a past that is loosely described by him, yet fails to reveal--either in the main course of the game or in its overpriced epilogue--how the game should have derived the Prince of Persia title. Granted, the land is barren and desert-like, reminiscent of the Arabian Nights. Yet any mention of Babylon or Persia is missing. The Prince's past is best explained by the manual, in which it says that he is prince "in name only." Though he is prince in name, he is not in the game. With an obvious refusal to acknowledge his royalty within the confines of this first installment, the game would perhaps be better called Elika, for she is what, in the end, matters in the game.

Herein lies the missed opportunity. The game has already eschewed the logical connection between it and its predecessors, an opening that allows growth outward in an industry that seems to fears intellectual expansion almost as much as it craves audience expansion. With this gap available, why make the Prince the playable character? Why have Elika be relegated to a 'damsel in distress' stereotype only slightly fractured by her useful and necessary role? She is no Ashley Graham (from Resident Evil 4), but she is no Lara Croft (from Tomb Raider) either. With a possibility so broad, why ultimately regress into standard gender roles?

Lara as a Leader

The idea of Lara Croft being what the Prince calls himself (a 'tomb raider') may be a slight explanation for wanting to avoid casting Elika as the main character, but comparisons between the two dry up rapidly.

Lara Croft is buxom (always, though the degree has changed over the years) and oozes a latent sexuality in every animation. This very characteristic of hers was capitalized upon by casting Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft in the movie offshoots. Elika, conversely, though aware of her femininity, does not use it as a tool to manipulate the Prince (he does it to himself by falling for her). She is--for a video game character--modestly dressed in her default costume* and recognizes that, despite the Prince obviously sending out signals, she is focused on the task at hand.

Lara is also extraordinarily proactive (a natural extension of being the playable character), a trait that plays well into her abilities as an avatar. Elika, on the other hand, is passive almost to a fault, only stepping forward when it's to save the Prince from death. Every other action she does only occurs when the gamer (via the Prince) presses the Assist Button.

Lastly, the motivations that drive the two characters are about as opposite as possible. Lara's long history has also lead to a lot of retconning of her past, her family, and why she does what she does. Yet it all started with a tank-top, short-sporting should-be model shooting exotic animals and solving centuries-old puzzles inside of tombs. Her motivation is similar to that of Indiana Jones': Go on adventures because it'll be adventerous. The higher motivations failed--in part because the idea of deeper complexities within a character had yet to be recognized within the gaming form. Elika intially rejects the Prince, trying to push him away so that he would not get harmed by assisting her. Her goal is to undo the terrible damage that she is indirectly responsible for, an atoning action that forces her every step of the way--to the point that she ultimately abandons the Prince at the end of the Epilogue, knowing that what they have done is an irreparable harm to the world she sought to save.

Still, the comparison still fits in that both women are intelligent, capable, athletic, beautiful, and other important characteristics. Nevertheless, there is enough difference between who Elika is--gameplay mechanics and visual style aside--that sets her apart from her longer-lived sister. Wanting to avoid comparisons to Lara Croft could never be a justified reason for pushing Elika into her subservient role.

But aside from this juxtaposition, how else is Elika slighted by her stance as secondary character? It is notable and lamentable that the story served the Prince more than the princess, but even within the confines of the game and its story there is a subtle statement about worth. Not only is the Prince essentially invincible (in a fight, even if the gamer fails to execute a QTE command properly, death is not the result; instead, the opponent is forced back by Elika and heals back some of its lost health), but Elika, quite pointedly, is not. In fact, she dies twice, before the beginning and at the end. Life for men, it seems to insinuate, is endless, but the life of women is transient, fragile, throw-away.

This type of comment is probably rejected by most readers, and the developers certainly weren't thinking about making a statement about the worth of women's lives over men's. And I do not think that the game ultimately argues that. It should be pointed out that this woman's life is of such great worth to the Prince that he undoes everything that the gamer has done throughout the entire game! In a more literal sense than Metal Gear Solid 4 could ever hope to do, the Prince takes Prince of Persia and brings it back to zero. All effort, all violence, all near-death experiences are rendered void for the simple expression that is most frequently sung about and most rarely understood: love.

Elika cannot be the main character when the story's exploration is about how a man who has never cared for much (save 'carpets this thick!') now cares more than the world for a single woman--who may or may not reciprocate. The unrequited love theme is a trope, is an archetype, and is enhanced by the way this game plays.

When looked at from one angle, it is because of how important, subservient, and 'pushed back' she is that the Prince begins to understand how deeply he needs her. At the very end of the game (not the Epilogue), the Prince has to destroy the four trees that he and Elika have spent the entire game ameliorating. Without Elika, the process of climbing up to where the trees are is more laborious and requires additional innovation. In other words, her absence makes life more difficult. This realization pushes the Prince to do the unthinkable; it seems to provide a counter-argument to the idea of the worth of Elika's life.

What Works, What Doesn't

As the gamer moves the Princely avatar from one Fertile Ground to the next, performing acrobatic feats that would green any parkour runner with jealousy, a sense of immortality arises. This comes, in no small part, from the fact that Elika is always there to save the Prince. Any misstep, failed jump, or poorly aimed run will result in an instant 'respawn' at the last flat surface--carried out by a brief animation of Elika reaching down and plucking the Prince from doom, their hands clasping together as she carries him to safety. This is part of the redemption of the religation to subservience that Elika suffers--though she is not the one in control (nor being controlled), she is the only one that is capable of completing the task. She may not be the titular character, but she is the only reason the game works.

As I said earlier, this is not necessarily an attack on the game. It wouldn't work if the roles were reversed, in part because natural archetypal baggage is at play within the game that allows the gamer to take mental, narrative shortcuts. (Princess-in-peril: this provides an easy reference for goals that the gamer should already know, a shorthand that gives the story a mesh of preconceived narrative bits, ideally allowing the story to move forward without scaffolding additional background motivation.) More than that, however, the Prince in this game is much more helpless than he lets on, which allows Elika additional expansion as a character.

The Prince is pointedly ignorant of what is going on--done so that gamers have a relatable character with whom they will learn about the world they now inhabit. Thanks to his naivety, one of the important steps in developing video game narrative is exposed: plot progression at the pace of the player. The gamer is allowed to reference Elika for hints, recommendations, and backstory. This is accessed by speaking with her (pressing either L button), and can be done at almost any time. Those who are interested in learning why Ahriman is eroding the world are welcome to hear more; those more interested in the next wall jump can proceed immediately to it.

What works is the concept of control; the gamer is allowed to control the quantity of story that is fed in--whether it be much or little. The dialogue also furthers the relationship that the two have, the way they learn to trust each other, and an understanding of the Prince's interest in Elika as a potential love interest. All of this compounds together to enhance the storytelling, a beautiful execution and acceptance of the paths that interactive storytelling provides.

There is a flaw in this, however. Despite the fact that when the story is revealed, it still, of necessity (it seems) breaks into brief cutscenes, during which time only the slight manipulation of the camera is possible. When Elika is explaining about the Corruption that's infesting her home, the gamer cannot be simultaneously exploring it. This is for the best; the story would be lost in the spectacle of incessant bounding and climbing. However, it has again fallen into the trap of traditional storytelling in an untraditional format.

Lastly, there is an issue with the necessity of the Epilogue to describe what actually occurs within the story's architecture. The game's ending fits the game, the Epilogue provides enough closure to allow for patience until the sequel is (and should be) released. But what is most important for the Epilogue is establishing the fractured relationship that Elika and the Prince now share. She had knowingly sacrificed herself to prevent a worser evil, but the utilitarian philosophy that she espouses grates against the more deontological view that the Prince adheres to. This fundamental difference provides a lot of growth (narratively) for the characters, but also exposes the rationale that the Prince uses for justifying his actions of releasing the Dark God. He claims that her death is precisely what Ahriman wanted, since with her death so dies any chance of resistance. Yet the attentive gamer can't help but feel that he felt guilt for having not fully performed his duty toward her in protecting her from Ahriman, while simultaneously coming to grips with the love he feels for her--a love that she has essentially expressed as being one-sided.

The Epilogue pursues these threads fairly well; the price tag for continuing not even 2 more hours of the game, however, is a little steep. Monetary gripes aside, the Epilogue ultimately ends up being an essential part of the experience, as well as providing the wanted closure that keeps the game from suffering from the Assassin's Creed syndrome.

Closing Thoughts

Prince of Persia has moved video games forward, I think, in some small but notable ways. But, as will always be the case, the characters' depth and complexity, their burgeoning respect and (possibly unrequited) love for each other making for a more vested interest in the game. The mechanics are wonderful, the levels brilliantly designed, and the semi-open ended approach is a refreshing take on the franchise. More than that, however, there is a sense of wonder at the world that was explored, a sentiment of awe that provides the best kind of games--the type that live in the imagination and memory long after the disc has stopped spinning.

*Bonus content: One of Elika's alternative costumes is a remake of the outfit worn by Jade in BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL, which casts a very strong, independent, and un-stereotypical woman in the leading role. Jade is strong, smart, and resourceful--the same as Elika--but she carries the title, rather than Elika's religation to the back seat.

Of course, it would be remiss not to mention that Farah, the silk- and scantily-clad love interest of the earlier PoP games is also available for Elika to wear. This only further emphasizes the arguments in the essay.