You are not welcome here

A house sits plump and in decay on the edge of town; empty, save for the aura is casts over anyone who glimpses its weathered facade and black, empty windows. What is simply an abandoned structure, cast away from the beating heart of society, builds a certain personality for itself. Perhaps it’s the age old stigma of the haunted house, or maybe there is something else within its character that arouses the most irrational of our senses. Fundamentally, a great portion of our reactions and emotions are governed by fear, a response that represents, and mutates into a more palatable selection of responses that drive our actions whether they be creative or destructive. When surrounding the player within an environment, your goal as a designer is to stimulate the player into a response; immediate or delayed, and when this is accomplished, they may shape their own emotional experience under the prompts of your own.

Every day we walk through the world almost oblivious of the way in which it affects us. A park bench here, a stretch of lawn there; singular elements that have been combined in a way that a town planner prays to the gods of the popular consensus will be appealing. The idea that the worlds we exist in – the microcosms of streets, suburbs and city – have been planned and crafted loosely, or specifically for our use and enjoyment often slips past us, not because we don’t care, but because it feels appropriate; right. But sometimes it doesn’t. I needn’t go into the minutiae of the pathological effects that certain designs can have upon the mind because they can largely be summarised in a single point. They make us feel unwelcome.

Like the casual trickle of racist remarks that unconsciously lurch forth from the rancorous old man buried beneath acres of cracked memories and Hawaiian shirts, a sense of foreboding and dread creeps up the spine and clouds the brain whenever we are somewhere that does not make us feel like we belong. Although the spectrum of emotions and associations may vary dramatically, the central broth of fear bubbles and toils onward, regardless of what it is comprised.

It is an all too well known fact that I like horror as a genre but the spatial dynamic that entangles the player within an unnatural environment in what has led me to favour the delivery of the computer game. Within a game, a player is not simply completing a checklist of objectives (sadly innacurate) or watching the action unfold from their lofty desk-chair, they are involving themselves within the fabric of the world around them consciously and unconsciously just as we do on a daily basis, and within these worlds lies the power to shape the way in which the player responds to a narrative, and the emotional experience they have within the game.

I feel that within the structure of a game, the way the environment is presented can be separated at a very high level, into two dichotomous groups based upon the way they behave with the player. I’ve labelled these groups as “inviting” and “alienating”, however, I believe that this is not absolute. Whilst a game’s environment may appear to serve the purpose of “inviting” or “alienating” the player from the world on a surface level, and triggering their emotional response accordingly, it may often develop into a more complex dynamic. To recognise the depth of the concept, I think it is important to understand the way in which the environment can present itself beyond my simple classifications.

Cryostasis is an under-appreciated psychological horror game by Russian developer 1C Company that understands the necessity of creating a complex dynamic between the player and the world. In a recent article in Tom Jubert’s Stories in Unlikely Places series, Tom discusses how narratives can intertwine to create an engaging narrative experience, however, he makes mention toward the way that the player builds a bond with the ship.

“Modelling temperature as a crucial survival resource could have been inventive, and the moments that mirror Dead Space’s haunting zero G scenes – where you fight your way out into the blizzard, surviving moment to moment on the fleeting respite of a hot air vent or partially destroyed cabin – are atmospheric and rewarding; but for the most part all this marketing talk just means the health bar’s replaced with a thermometer; med kits with fires, heaters and even desk lamps.”

Although the ship is a harmful and unforgiving frozen tomb, a crucial gameplay mechanic – the player’s health – is maintained by elements of the ship itself, forcing the players to forge an uncertain bond with the vessel. By doing this, the player is drawn into a world they must involve themself in, and consider as more of a complex entity, rather than simply a place. Although a gameplay-centred path of interaction can excel in player involvement, it requires the use of a central, and usually mandatory mechanic in order to enforce the particular player-world dynamic that the game is trying to capture. An alternate is the world-building narrative.

The original Bioshock is one of my favourite examples of the way in which a world can continue its own unfolding narrative, a place in which a slice of the 1920’s and 30’s is sustained well into the 1960’s within the time capsule of a falling dystopia. As you may already know, the protagonist, Jack, is summoned to Rapture under puzzling circumstances and chances upon a majestic city, thrown into ruin by none other than its denizens. This time the world poses only as a historical backdrop within the game’s fiction – a world of rational self interest, turned hedonism – that provokes the player’s sense of being through what man has made it. However it is not a static entity.

Although it may not be apparent, Bioshock presents a transition between the effect of invitation and alienation that the player has some part in. When the player first arrives in Rapture, they are thrust into conflict between the bygone glamour and style, and the bloody sheen of recent tragedy, an active contrast that leans toward the latter as the story progresses and the player learns of the ways that man has corrupted his own perfection – the city of Rapture – through his own violent ambition. However, Bioshock introduces another element of complexity in a similar way as Cryostasis, beyond the guise of a moral imperative.

The way a game challenges us to think can often be attributed to the way in which in which it invites us to perceive its world. Bioshock presents players with a simple, yet confronting moral choice: kill the little sisters for a lot of world-important resource, or save them for a little, with no stated reward. Irrespective of what you choose, the world is still as hostile toward you as it ever was, but the way in which the player interacts with its themes is somewhat altered. Choosing the “good” route means that Dr Tennenbaum with speak favourably of you and deliver you gifts, revealing a rational, altruistic, and once appealing side to Rapture’s walls, where the other will strip the tale down to the corruption of an idea and its tragic, lasting effect on an ambitious world.

Ultimately, it is impossible to create a definitive judgement of how the player will respond to a world because for all you know, they will spend their time drawing cocks with bullet holes all over your prize exposition. However, since the player’s experience is somewhat unpredictable, loose systems that tie the player’s fate to the world around them can turn what you don’t know of the player’s experience, into something profoundly interesting. A world is simply a tool, used correctly, an emotional bond can be created that strengthens the experience that the player will have in accordance to its themes, whether these draw the player into the fabric of the universe, or alienate them within their sphere of thought and reason.