Oftentimes, an affinity for video games feels like something to hide. Years of association with pocket protectors and Dorito-dusted fingers have left the medium irreparably stigmatized in the eyes of many.
But the truth is, video games have grown up.
Last week, "Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3" sold 9.3 million copies in a single day, solidifying its place as the largest entertainment property in the world. As much as we don't like to admit it, these days, video games are for everyone.
Unfortunately, gaming criticism hasn't kept pace. Within 20 years of the advent of cinema, film studies was a viable academic field. Yet here we are more than 50 years after the creation of the first video game, and analysis of the medium is limited to enthusiast websites and trade magazines. This is an egregious oversight, because games have the potential to tell stories more powerfully than any other medium.
A bold claim, to be sure, but where other arts provide passive experiences, video games are active. It is a question of sympathy versus empathy. When you watch a movie or read a book, you come to intimately know a character, but in a video game, you are that character. The news is filled with wayward teens so immersed in video games who—because they are unable to distinguish reality from fiction—act out violently in real life. These storylines make up yellow journalism more than anything else, but the fact remains that video games can create incredibly powerful worlds.
One of my favorite examples of the empathetic power of video game storytelling comes from Rockstar Games' 2010 Western epic, "Red Dead Redemption." In the game, you play as John Marston, a former outlaw thrust back into his old ways when the U.S. government kidnaps his family in order to coerce him into hunting down the members of his old gang. Perhaps best described as "Grand Theft Pony," the game sets players loose in a vast open world and allows them to explore it at their whim. The formula is familiar: players track down and confront each member of the gang in a predictable sequence. However, it is in the last handful of hours that "Red Dead Redemption" does something special. Be warned, if you plan on playing, major spoilers lie ahead.
"Red Dead Redemption" is a game about freedom; the world is a sandbox, with new experiences and adventures emerging from every corner. However, when you reach the end of the story and rescue your family, the game suddenly ties you down to a ranch. The developers deliberately make the game miserable to play for five hours. Instead of riding free on the open plains, the player is forced to milk cows and spend quiet time bonding with Marston's son. The experience is absolutely suffocating.
Up to this point, "Red Dead Redemption" has allowed the player to live impulsively: when it suddenly thrusts responsibility upon him, it runs contrary to everything he knows. Like Marston, you've spent the game doggedly pursuing an objective, but once you've actually obtained it, you begin to question why you wanted it in the first place. The hunt was what you enjoyed, and with no more carrot to chase, the player is left feeling restless. Of course, this is a classic Western trope, but in the context of the game it is vividly brought to life. A film audience can watch and understand Shane or Ethan Edwards, but in the game you feel their plight.
When the army finally shows up and attacks your ranch, the sense of relief is palpable. Even as it becomes increasingly clear that there is no hope for the family life you had fought for the entire game, you can't help but feel the excitement build. After hours of oppressively dull chores, the familiar chaos of battle is a welcome friend and now, returned to the life they know, both Marston and the player are viscerally awake. In the climax of this sequence, Marston must stay behind to fight off the pursuers so that his family can make their escape. In a recreation of the famous moment from "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," the entire 1st Cavalry Division is waiting outside his door. The difference is, in the film, Butch and Sundance are always going to run out and meet their fate. Here, nothing forces the player forward; you have to gather up the courage yourself. When you do, the game automatically launches into its "dead-eye mode," in which time momentarily slows down to let you line up your target. Having used it throughout the game, the player knows full well that they can get off five, maybe six shots at most. John Marston is going to die.
Though we've come a long way from Mario's princess being in another castle, video game storytelling is still in its infancy. Even the best games lack much emotional complexity, generally following linear paths or, at best, presenting binary choices. However, even these simple experiences resonate strongly with players because of what they bring to the table. Empathy flows both ways, and the simplest of decisions are informed by the player's own experiences, allowing for layers of meaning that even the developers could never have foreseen. When video games grow into their own and begin to rely on devices unique to the medium rather than borrowed from other arts, they will offer narratives like no other.