Virtual Unreality

There's a gap, somewhere, as necessary as a space between words, yet perplexing all the same. Video games are unique in many ways, but the most important here is the unreality of the experience, connected via a tiny umbilical cord (now wireless) streaming from the participant to the spectacle. This is not 'naïve realism' versus 'representative realism' or any other philosophical thought experiment. Instead, this is the real experiment of what can constitute definitions of reality, but placed inside of a virtual realm.

The game is flat, despite having 3D graphics (or the redundant title of 'stereoscopic vision' being added to give the illusion of dimensional depth to games). The game is silent, despite having 7.1 Dolby Digital sound pumping through the speakers. The game is independent, despite being a console attached to a wall attached to a TV attached to a gamer. Perhaps in a quasi-Buddhist way, we could ask, “If no one is around to play the game, is it still played?”

We can ask 'What is real?' for eons (as philosophers already have) and still come up with only partial answers and glimpses of potential subjective truth, but let's look at it from a more physical standpoint. We sense ourselves, we sense the couch beneath us, we sense the controller in our hands (for now). We can see the screen, hear the fans whir as the game loads, the click of the buttons as we impatiently wait to begin the next step in Petitor's adventure. If we take this sense (everything the mind gives us, from the level of hunger in our bellies to the amount of irritation we have at the boss to the other things we're ignoring to play the game) as real, as the benchmark, as the first level, what happens when almost everything else is pushed aside for the unreality of the game?

Level One: The game is real in terms of visibility: The screen changes from black to blinding, high definition white, filling the room with a paleness akin to death. The colors change and flicker, refreshing themselves 60 times per second, playing the player a simple play of who designed the play itself, the producers, the distributors, the creators, the self-advertisements sliding past as fast as the Start Button is pressed. The game is real in terms of touch: Tactile senses are limited to that of the controller, regardless of Force Feedback or Motion Sensors, but still real for the input. Even games that don't use such gimmicks are relegated to the sensation of the rubber analog sticks and plastic buttons beneath the thumbs. The game is real in terms of sound: The chimes as the cursor slides from 'New Game' to 'Load Game', the click as the depressed button is released, the sound effect as the game acknowledges the selection. The game is real in terms of these three senses, leaving out the senses of smell and taste (for now).

But the gap persists. There is something within the game that cannot be extended outwards, a boundary that is as much an algorithm as the mathematics dictating the way the game starts. Petitor cannot break free of his square prison, cannot turn about to face an outward reality, a focus only on the internal reality that Petitor can perceive. Here is the world where creatures attack him; he is compelled by the X Button to respond with violence. The digital world celebrates the vanquishing of the digital creature, none of which is real to the gamer, all of which is real to the game. This dichotomy of 'our real' versus 'his real' only exists in level one.

Level Two: The game is unreal in terms of visibility: The screen puts up a veneer, a facade, a fiction that is then believed by the player to be the game. Here we have Plato's Allegory of the Cave in a traditional sense, of the shadows on the wall being taken as real, perceived as real, but in reality are completely unreal. (This is the pun, that the game's graphical fidelity to the fiction of the game's own world is rendered by an engine of the same name.) The game is unreal in terms of touch: Forever distant, the only connection between the gamer and the game is molded plastic, clasped in sweaty hands and sometimes receiving the fury of a mistimed jump or the superior skills of an opponent. The weight of Petitor's sword does not numb our arms after hours of violent swinging. Heat reflecting from the sands of a vast yellow desert does not prickle our brows to sweat. The crunch of the gravel road is not felt beneath our feet. The game is unreal in terms of sound: Recorded at time apart from the experience, every sound is like the image--pure digital. There cannot be the sound of a wagon wheel creaking in front of Petitor, for no such wheel exists. The foley artists (true artists in their craft) deceive with simplicity--what sounds to be a broken bone is really a rent stalk of celery; what sounds like a footstep in a roofed amphitheater is but a footstep in a darkened room, perfectly recorded.

This world of Petitor's seems real to him, and we lie to ourselves to say that it seems real to us. The thin, transparent material that divides his world from ours is only semipermeable, and then it's such only one way. We can control him. In Level Two, he cannot control us.

Level Three: The game is real again: The console is turned off. The screen has gone black. The controller is put away. The speakers fall silent. Within us lurks Petitor. We can see him, as Hamlet does of his late father, 'in [our] mind's eye', an avatar of what once was and is now dead. Petitor's experiences become ours; his memories one with our own. The experienced recollection of the game has replaced the action of the game. As in Coriolanus, 'For in such business/action is elegance', an elegance that has extended backward through the game and into the gamer, whose very business is action. Thus the gamer is rescued from lack of the real upon reversal and reflection. Petitor becomes a second-generation control, one that harnesses the gamers' mind and thus indirectly manipulates those who thought they were controlling him. The unreal becomes real as the reverse asserts itself.

The game itself is gamer-less, yet gamer-contingent for perception. The same can be argued for ourselves; that the world itself is without us to perceive it, yet us-contingent for perception. The opposite can be argued, too: The game itself is only real when perceived by the gamer (the world itself is only real when perceived by humans).

Petitor doesn't know the difference. The creatures he fights are real to him, no matter what the Man Behind the Controller would say. Hence Raiden is correct (to an extent) when he yells at the Colonel in Metal Gear Solid 2: “We're out here, we bleed, we die!” To Petitor, reality is what is in front of him, all digital, all binary, all yeses and nos. He is compelled at all times--that is part of his reality. When the game is off, he does not perceive, he does not dream, he does not exist, he does not suffer. He is in the same status as when the game was saved. He is not real, not only because his game has not been (nor, indeed, can be) made, but because the digital manifestation of him is unreal.

Bonus Level: The game is unreal again: This is a different type of unreal, one that is called such not because it does not exist, but because it is the anti-real--hyperreal, a type of real that has become much more (and, paradoxically, much less) than the real itself. It is the currency of our times. Baudrillard would say that the hyperreal is “the generation by models of a real without origin or reality” (1). Is this not the game, then? 'Models of a real' person, such as any 'realistic' avatar (Petitor), who is without both origin (the gamer can give an address, but what about Petitor--or any avatar, for that matter. Where is he located? Where on the disc can one point and say, “There, there is Petitor, in all his potential!”? Scattered over the reflective plastic, the only traceable, significant locus for a character is inside the gamer, in Level Three) and reality.

The hyperreal is the evolution of reality in modernity. Symbols and signs argue for significance, an argument that stifles itself with its own bombast and ferocity. Within the game, comes the ideal once more, the idea that what matters in the world of the game is noticeable above all other signs. This impossibility in the 'real world' is easily and frequently invoked in the 'game world.' Keys sparkle, healing items shimmer, important documents are the only readable areas of the desk, arrows point the way to the next destination. Would that such a convenience existed in the 'real world'!

Thus the hyperreal of the video games reterritorializes what has been subsumed in the hyperreal of modernity, a standing against oversaturation of symbolism by limiting significance into the confines of the game. Little wonder, then, that morality within the game is limited, too.

Moving away from the theory, a question is raised by Petitor, who has just killed his father (a common enough motif in a game). Now is the chance for the narrative to assert itself, to make Petitor seem real as only fiction can be. Now is the chance for the avatar to wonder what he has become, who he truly is, why he does what he does. Instead, Petitor grabs the sword his father wielded and hurries away, not a backward glance, for the gamer wants to get some more orbs in order to level up.

Why is there no ontological crisis of reality in most games? Why do most games avoid the question of selfhood, the duplicity of potential reality, the wonder at existence? Games aspire to hide behind natural human desires--of violence, destruction, sexuality, creation--yet cannot come to grips with what it is--or is not? Perhaps this is why MGS2 is so important and difficult a text. Perhaps this is why the ending of Resident Evil 5 is simultaneously correct (Chris comes to an answer that has plagued him throughout the game) and erroneous (Chris fails to realize the price that must be paid for the thousands of human lives he and Sheva have snuffed out). Until the game is brave enough to consider the repercussions of the dark side of the human soul, instead of just its outward forms of violence and depravity, the genre as a whole will be unable to step into and accept the very hyperreality that it embraces--one in which signs are one more thing under human control.

Ideal Individuals Part II

An item to interject before I tackle these thoughts again:

One of my students posted some interesting thoughts about what inspired the previous post, which he put up in his journal on DeviantArt.com (an interesting website, if you haven't checked it out. I can't vouch for its content, save that it's 'interesting' in all sorts of ways). His thoughts are, as always, lucid and fraught with potential. I'm glad he's in my class. Anyway, he has a very interesting post that touches on some of the video game philosophy (I've gotta come up with a better term than that...it needs something more poststructural) that he and I have worked on. It's too brief for my taste, though his essay on Xenogears is eye-opening, to say the least. He has some less-than-supportive/understanding friends on DeviantArt that commented on his ideas, leading his comments section to be less than worthwhile. I have the Shakespeare quote gadget on this blog, and it, ironically, has a very fitting motto that I would like to make a type of mantra for all online interactions for everybody (hey, a fellow can dream, right?).

Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood.

Apt, no? I think we all could benefit a lot from this sort of theme.

Close Item.

The Concept of Self

Reading again. Reading almost always leads me to the blogspot, which is not a bad thing. I was reading a bit about Deleuze and Spinoza (two philosophers--one extremely modern, the other Enlightened--that you can learn about by following the links; they're Wikipedia entries, so believe with caution) and how some of their philosophies and purviews could be reflected on zombies. This comes in the form of the aforementioned book, so that should be no surprise to hear where it came from. But today's blog isn't about zombies, directly (I can never say 100% that what I have to say will have NOTHING to do with ghouls, since they seem to have eaten my brain, of late). Instead it's a tiny little moan that I feel as though my feeble brain is too shallow to be able to touch what others have said before. In fact, the two philosophers I just mentioned are incredibly complex, and with the ache in my head and the lateness of the hour, I couldn't make any sense out of their words. So, consider this my 'poor me' paragraph: I'm not as smart as other (read: any) philosophers. This mini-treatise, then, is my own exploration, other people having thought this stuff up be gosh-darned.

Okay, onto the concept of self. Loosely, I've been wondering more and more about this topic as I've been exploring Frankenstein with my class. The kids are bright, they're understanding the material, and we've had some phenomenal discussions. We've been arguing about things like the relevancy of a one's way of being created and how that would impact one's locus in an afterlife, whether or not Victor Frankenstein is responsible for the actions of his monster/creation (and, if so, if God, then, would be culpable for our misdeeds), and other great thoughts. But one of the things that is most emphatically questioned in the book is what is identity? What makes us us? It's one of the bedrock questions of philosophy, and, as such, it applies to what I was saying earlier about video games.

The concept of self, then, must have a foundation somewhere: social, religious, philosophical, biological, scientific. Similarly, there are many avenues that we can take: Am I a mind first and a body second (or the two are one, as Spinoza claims)? Is thought a requisite to selfhood (as Descartes is famous for having declared)? Did I come from elsewhere or an elsewhen (as my religion posits)? While I feel that I have answers to some of these questions, it's definitely not an easy thing to dilute into a blog post, even one as notoriously (to me and the two other people who glance at it) long and pointless as mine. But the point remains that who I am is something that has to be considered carefully.

Insert Coins to Continue

Within the purview of video games comes up this same ontological crisis. No, I correct myself. Within the purview of video games, this same ontological crisis should surface, but it rarely, if ever, does. Here's what I mean, with Resident Evil 5 as an excellent example: In the game, your avatar is Chris Redfield (or Sheva, but that's not the point--let's not get distracted by tangents). You, the gamer, manipulate Chris via the handful (literal?) of buttons on the controller. You wish to aim your weapon--the L1 button will do that for you. Pull a knife on someone? L2 makes that desire come true. Plenty of control.

Now let's put Chris in action. A possessed Majini comes after you. Knowing the type of game it is, you ready your weapon (L1) and fire a shot into him (R1). Rinse and repeat until Evil is vanquished. You pwn3d him, FTW.

You (the individual) have overcome the Other (the Majini) via an intermediate resource (the avatar, Chris). You are only barely removed from the situation by a carefully placed camera, just above the shoulder of your avatar. Your self is not your self, but only just. Let me try to poke at this from a different angle.

Levels of Detachment

If I write the word 'dog' then you're going to conjure up a particular image. If you're one of my pals, you might imagine this. You will most likely imagine an animal that has a copious amount of fur, walks on four legs, drools when you cook bacon, etc. These characteristics are all part of an intersubjective agreement between us and the world, dialectical shortcuts that allow us to talk about 'doghood' without having to necessarily discuss a single dog and her characteristics. Moving away from concrete concepts into a more abstract one is requisite to understand a broad enough definition to encompass all of what we're discussing (doghood). This is detaching yourself, putting in levels of distance between what is real (what the dog Emmy looks like, acts like, smells like) and what is perceived (the commonalities between all dogs, the concept of doghood).

Okay, what's the point of the poststructuralist platitudes? Well, these levels of detachment get exacerbated the more we talk about them. There may be what Plato would call the Form of a dog, but every iteration on the planet is merely a shadow of that. Then, if we start to construct a type of meaning around 'doghood' and try to convey that through language, we've created an additional level of detachment from the Form: a copy of a copy (of a copy of a copy, depending on how many words we have to use to describe the brute). I argue that these levels of detachment are part of the loss of individuality that is rampant in society, and that video games are attempting to recapture that loss.

Tying it Together

Let's look at Chris in Africa in the midst of the biohazard breakout that must be averted by him (and lots of bullets). In the game, your avatar represents you. Whatever he desires, you desire--though, perhaps, for different reasons. Because he is a digital you, there is some loss in translation--a detachment from the Form--and those shortcomings have to be supplanted by giving the avatar some distinctly un-you-like qualities. F'rinstance:

• You (most likely) do not have biceps larger than most five-year-olds' heads.
• You (most likely) do not have the capacity to carry a rocket-launcher on top of an assault rifle on top of a shotgun.
• You (most likely) do not find it advantageous to cut open fruit in the hopes of finding ammo in the remains of it.
  
• You (most likely) have not punched a zombie-creating plague-ridden human so hard that his head explodes.

These differences (and many others like them) are key to understanding what is 'gained' in a video game's false world. The four examples are the designer's attempt to make up for the unavoidable gap between You-The-Gamer and You-The-Avatar.

As I said earlier, overcoming the detachment is an attempt to regain what has been lost in translation. Indeed, this could be another reason that makes video games so compelling.

Lost In A Sea of Humanity

There's a deliberate misquote of the book (and movie) Fight Club that gets bandied about: "You're a unique and beautiful snowflake...just like everybody else." This is the same idea that's explored (a little) in the movie The Incredibles. "If everybody's special, nobody is." Our society is specifically built around the idea of the self being worthwhile--indeed, the very purpose of our government is to ensure personal freedoms, liberties, and rights. This expectation of the value of the one over the many has lead to its share (if not in equal portions, at least in equal terms of good and bad) of incredible creation and horrible depravity. The hedonistic tendencies that have ultimately corrupted and rotted our economic system are proof of what happens when everyone thinks they are the only one that matters. Conversely, we see stalwart examples of humanity that recognize the power of one: Mother Theresa springs instantly to my mind, though other philanthropists are just as deserving of the attention.

So in a world where if you aren't rich, famous, beautiful, or all of the above, it is difficult to feel the value of the self. An individual becomes one in a sea of similarities. All experiences are felt and shared alike (a tendency even more true with the ubiquity of the Internet and self-serving and -aggrandizing blog posts that wind on for eternity to no valid end), and the One become blurred into the Other.

Some would argue that this blurring is not at all a bad thing. No black, no white, a "beauty of gray" as the band Live croons in their debut album. But there's a counterpoint to the idea that lack of definition is superior, and video games fight that very concept--sometimes literally.

Busting Caps and Taking Names

There's an overt American aggression to a lot of video games (particularly titles like the Resident Evil series), and the aggression is not necessarily just on the violent side of things. Still, it's important to note what I mentioned earlier about the individual becoming one with the ideal world represented in a game. If inside of the fake African community portrayed in Resident Evil 5, what I do finally matters then it is of extreme importance that I do everything I can to matter. No longer am I simply a replaceable cog in a wheel. I have been imbued with almost supernatural strength, stamina, health, and reserves of ammo. I can finally make a difference. I can save the world, one head shot at a time. The gray is gone: there is right and wrong, good and evil, my death (and the death of the world) and my life (and the life of the world).

These fantasies, as it were, have been around as long as epic stories of heroic daring-do has existed. Poems and myths of men like Beowulf, Heracles, and King Arthur all attempt to appropriate the worth of an individual and make it extend outward--to have the actions carry significant and lasting weight. The purpose of those texts, among others, was to help the audience live vicariously--to matter vicariously. What danger lies in the story, then, when people feel they can almost save the world?

Video games, I submit, one up the long held traditions of vicarious self-worth, allowing the gamer to participate in her own future, to validate her own existence within that world. There is a danger, of course, of the digital imbricating upon the analog--the real world. But I'm more interested in seeing the analog infect the digital, of the real world mattering in the video game world. If we allow the game to replace real life, then we have lost. But if real life can replace the game--and the value of a person as an individual is celebrated--then we have won.

An Assay to Essay

I wanted to shoot this off ere I read one of the chapters in one of the new books I bought (don't laugh...too hard), The Undead and Philosophy: Chicken Soup for the Soulless. Okay, so it's a little bit gruesome, but you know what they say about judging a book by its cover. Also, this little book has a bit of a past with me: I am part of an intelligent and helpful writing group, the members of which spend a good deal of personal time shifting through my drivel and telling me that they like it. One member even takes time to peek in on this blog, which is probably indicative of a type of literary masochism. I don't know.

Anyway, one of the authoresses of the group was/is writing a vampire novel (think Twilight for grown-ups...and better), and I noticed the aforementioned philosophy book at Borders. I flipped through it and laughed, thinking that Bekah could really benefit from some of the essays about vampires that the book has to offer. I put it down, told her about it, laughed, and forgot.

Then, in (large?) part because of the release of Resident Evil 5 for the PS3 and Xbox 360, I came onto another zombie kick. I've always had a fascination with zombies, which is a little double-standarded (real word?) of me, since I don't watch rated-R movies and generally skip over parts of super explicit violence in books. Some video games I won't play because the violence is too extreme (Dead Space and Grand Theft Auto IV spring to mind, though the latter title has additional content that I find unappealing). Because of this persistent interest in the undead, I have even concocted (read: stole) an idea for a fun thought excersize that I do with my students at school. So I have zombies on the brain--though not eating them, fortunately.

When I was at Borders recently picking up a copy of Paradise Lost, I stopped in the philosophy section, as I normally do. I noticed the Undead... book and thought, Hey, this could be interesting! I looked at it again, less to see if it would work for Bekah and more if it would work for me. Sure enough, it is filled with fascinating discourses into what philosophers think about the kinds of stigmas that are attached to two particular types of undead: Vampires and zombies.

Cool.

With my teacher's discount, I get anything from Borders for 25% off, any day of the week.

Double cool.

So I picked it up and have read three or so chapters. It's really good, which isn't a surprise. Most of these 'Pop Culture and Philosophy' titles are well done, so I'm content with my purchase. One of the chapters that I noticed touches on a theme I've wanted to develop, so I thought I'd better write down my own ideas before I get infected by the other author's thoughts (an apt image, considering what we 'know' of zombies...)

Evil in Residence

First of all, a quick bit about my history with the Resident Evil titles. When I was in 9th grade, my almost-next-door-neighbor Mark bought a copy of RE2 for the PlayStation. We played that thing so many times I can't even count. It was probably a nightly thing for us to be blowing away zombies, lickers, and other sundry monsters created by the Umbrella Corporation. It was, frankly, an integral section of my childhood (and, parenthetically, one of the reasons why I refuse to believe that video games are leeching children of valuable childhood experiences; but that's an essay for a different time).

So I've been a victim of the T-Virus since 1997 or so. I own a number of paperback novelizations based upon the games, a number of the games themselves, a tee-shirt, and countless drawings of zombies in various states of second-death at the hands of a smoking gun, all of said drawings coming from me. Gruesome.

But I've grown up. Violence for violence's sake no longer attracts me to a title as it once did. I am glad to be able to say that, by the way. However, one of the things that has been persistent in my following of the Resident Evil series is the entire subject that the game was originally based upon: Fear.

Fear of Extinction

My good buddy Chris once confessed that he slept with a stake next to his bed while in junior high. Why? In case of a vampire's attack, of course. He didn't want to play the Resident Evil games (or even Castlevania, if I remember correctly) for a long time because they scared him. And it wasn't just the fear of blood-draining or flesh-eating that frightened him: it was the loss of his identity.

When you're bitten by a zombie (or vampire, which is an interesting correlation, too), you may as well consign yourself to one of two fates: complete death by lobotomy (the brain scrambling can be done in different ways, but the end result is the same); or undeath by reanimation (the body then doing everything it can to feast on flesh). Whatever may be what you consider you will be irrevocably gone.

Okay, so there are arguments about what constitutes the self anyway--that's part of what the Undead and Philosophy book explores. But let's just go with our typical, instinctive reaction to the idea of becoming a 'monster,' and point out out that that is what frightened Chris. And, frankly, that's what frightens me.

Yes, it's terrifying to conceive of being cannibalized, but survival of a zombie attack could very well mean that what you once were is completely gone. It is the fear of extinction--a complete ontological evaporation--that creeps about in the dark alleyways of your mind.

On Resident Evil

The fifth Resident Evil game came out in March. Gayle and I played it all the way through in 10 hours or so, and have made significant progress through it the second time (this time with infinite ammo!). It plays similarly to RE4 in that the controls are familiar and the action is pretty incessant. It's different in that the entire game, you are no longer playing alone--there is always someone there to help you out.

I won't review the game here, though I will say that it stands on its own merits very well, deserves its place in the Resident Evil canon, and is a LOT of fun to play. Instead, I want to focus on how the Progenitor Majini and Las Plagas Ganados (from RE5 and RE4 respectively) work toward the same goal as the zombies from earlier titles.

Essentially, the fear that I have going into 4 and 5 is not as powerful as going into the remake of the first game, or Zero for that matter. The tension, atmosphere, and overall impossibility of the situation is lost in the later games. In short, it's the superficial, "Anyone can be scared by this because the monsters jump out at you!" type of fright.

Resident Evil 5 seems to push it into a much more subtle and nuanced type of fear--a shift that, predictably, pushes less-observant gamers away. This is the fear of assimilation. This is a fear of nihilism. This is a fear of permanent loss of selfhood, the kind of ontological shock that can actually cripple a person who is afflicted with it. Instead of being the revolting type of scary that most horror (books, movies, games, you name it) try to foist upon you, the type of fear in these games probes deeper.

Here's where the problem lies: You have a lot of ammo. Literally, you have hundreds--thousands--of rounds to dispatch anything that moves. When the ears are ringing with the dead echoes of fired bullets, and the screen shakes with the force of your punches, and the righteousness of your quest to find your fallen comrade overrides your authority's commands, all of that nuance is lost. In the sensation overload of the game, the quiet whisper of a dead man's call is lost. You fail to hear what it is you're fighting against, for you are too busy fighting against it.

This applies to RE4, though the palpable fear is amped up by isolating the player, putting a box around normally social creatures. Leon has to brave the endless hordes of Ganados by himself; Chris always has Sheva there to keep him alive.

Another point surfaces here: The quantity of enemies (and, you might argue, the quality, too) in the last two games of the franchise is much higher. In Resident Evil 2, you could go for upwards of an hour (or more, if you got lost) without firing so much as a single bullet. With the limited amount available, that can be a good thing.

Similarly, the fear of extinction still abides in the previous titles--when dealing with the undead, the terror of a self's dissolution remains. As I said before, the earlier titles of the franchise play more with the mood of the gamers by using atmosphere, lighting, music, and camera angles to create the effect. In a sense, these techniques served as a mask for the true horror that the game explored.

When Resident Evil 4 came out, it was (rightly) met with almost universal acclaim. Not surprisingly, however, there were a remote few who panned the game--most notably for the lack of zombies to destroy. Replaced by smarter, tool- and weapon-wielding Ganados, the gamer was forced to take extreme measures to ensure survival. These smarter enemies--who infected the Majini in 5--strike a chilling chord into what being an individual constitutes.

Evil in Name Only

On a spectrum of selfhood, a continuum of identity, we would have on one side the dead (no consciousness, no capacity to choose, no ability to move). On the other side is the living (consciousness, free will, mobility). Somewhere in between that are the typical undead (no consciousness, no capacity to choose, yet ability to move--and eat). Now the lines of what it means to be alive or dead get blurred. That's (one of the reasons) why they're scary.

Then we get the Majini (a Swahili word for 'evil spirit') and Ganados (a Spanish word for 'cattle'). The line between undead and living suddenly gets blurred. On the continuum, the Majini are conscious, have no capacity to choose, and the ability to move. Even additional criteria point toward the idea that Majini are still alive--they are infected with a parasite that then controls them--yet they don't necessarily die, much like the undead. All definitions of living and dead are skewed and skewered by the psuedo-intelligent Majini.

This leads me to my last point: the name of the series. In Japan, Resident Evil was originally titled Biohazard. In fact, it still bears that name. It is a fit title, considering that all of the action happens because Umbrella Corporation has a biohazardous leak of its lethal, zombie-making viruses.

But when we stop to consider what it is that we consider evil, the more we may start to hold the zombies and Majini and Ganados blameless for their actions. It seems to me that one that has no consciousness can't really have a conscience, and that it would be inaccurate to label a conscienceless creation as 'evil.' The evil in residence is not the endless horde of flesh-eaters--it's the fear already within us. It's the question of nonbeing.

Ultimately, Resident Evil 5 asks us the question that mankind fears the most: Am I anything at all?