Category Archives: video games

Three adventure games

I played stuff

Related imageRelatively recently, I played three adventure games that were fairly compelling and impressive, but only one really blew me away. Two of these adventure games were by, arguably, the greatest designers of the genre: Ron Gilbert and Tim Shafer, in their great return to adventure game design. One was by a rather meek newcomer: Swedish independent Natalia Figueroa. This post is about how Ms. Figueroa blew me away.

Now one could argue that my expectations were very high for Schafer and Gilbert and very low for Figueroa, and that would be true. But that’s not where their games differed. Ms. Figueroa’s game shone in a very different and much simpler way.

The three games are the following: Tim Schafer reignited the flame of adventure games and probably strongly contributed in making Kickstarter a valid platform by using it to fund the adventure game that would eventually become Broken Age. Ron Gilbert followed suit with Thimbleweed Park. Natalia Figueroa also funded her game through crowdfunding, though in her case it was through Indiegogo. She made Fran Bow. Fran Bow was released shortly after the second part of Broken Age, a year and a half before Thimbleweed Park.

Broken Age

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Broken Age is meticulously designed, masterfully executed, innovative, charming and probably does not contain anything seriously wrong.

First, as one should expect from Tim Schafer, the art of Broken Age is executed in an extremely thorough way. The backgrounds are superb. The animation is simple, expressive and memorable. The voice acting is fantastic and some of the voice talent in Broken Age is performed by famous Hollywood and TV actors.

The basic premise is that, as the title indicates, the player is offered to play as either Vella, who seems to live in a idyllic fairytale-like world or Shay, who lives in a science fiction-like world. Neither world is fully coherent and both have details that just look wrong, or sometimes just elements that just don’t belong. Still, neither Vella nor Shay’s story seems to clearly connect to the other. The game is clearly divided in two parts and the implicit purpose of the first part is to figure out the connection between the two main player characters and their respective worlds. This is in addition to the general goal of the adventure game which is always to move the story forward.

This is a compelling premise. Shay and Vella seem to be separated in every conceivable way: one travels through space, one is stuck in a small area of land. One seems to live centuries after the other. Although, conceivably, Vella could be living on one of the planets Shay visits. Still, both characters are kept a distance that’s just effective enough to keep the player digging and seeking.

Shafer is no stranger to multicharacter adventure games. He’s mostly famous for Full Throttle and Grim Fandango, but I would still argue that his masterpiece is Day of the Tentacle, where the player had control of three extremely expressive characters, Bernard, Hoagie and Laverne, each separated by two hundred years in time.  The time puzzle of Day of Tentacle, which are at the core of the multicharacter aspect of the game, are one of its more memorable parts.

That is, if it works. And while the mystery of the connection between Shay and Vella does work, without a doubt in Broken Age, it’s not enough to keep the two parts connected. Not even in the second part of the game when they are connected not just through the continuous deepening mystery of how they are linked, but through specific puzzles and therefore through gameplay.

The problem with Broken Age

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And this is one of many ways in which Broken Age fails. For all of its meticulous attention to detail. For all of its exquisite art, delightful details, charming mood, stunning reversals and surprises, it feels unfinished, empty, hollow.

Not just that: it feels unfinished because it is too detailed. I know that sounds strange. Let me explain. It feels as if if more resources had been assigned into content and less into art, the game might have felt fuller, more meaty.

But it does not. Shay’s ship feels pretty small and empty. Shay, for reason that eventually become clear, never actually leaves his ship in part one of Broken Age. Vella does get to explore her land, but not very far. And she does not get to know that many people. And the people she does get to know are interesting, but she never seems to be able to interact with them that much.

Guybrush Threepwood from Monkey Island games, the three characters from Day of the Tentacle or April Ryan and Zoë Castillo from the Longest Journey games all seemed to be able to enter and touch much deeper, more complicated, more tangible, messier at times, fuller worlds. In comparison, the worlds of Broken Age feels like a empty template of what it could have been. It feels short. Like a thin slice of a wonderful, but overly decorated cake.

After I played it, I thought that Ron Gilbert, were he to make an adventure game, would focus less on voice and graphics and more on content. He’d give us a big, complex, deep, mysterious story with meaningful interaction. And that’s still what I expected when Thimbleweed Park was finally announced.

Thimbleweed Park

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When I saw the opening screen of Broken Age, I knew nothing about the game. I didn’t even know I’d have to begin by picking between two characters. I wanted to start playing as a complete blank slate. But when I came to Thimbleweed Park, I wanted to keep on top of things. I followed the blog. I even contributed. I made up a title for the bookstore and I wrote three books for the library.

Thimbleweed Park is also a multicharacter adventure game. It starts as a murder mystery. A body has been found in the eponymous Thimbleweed Park in 1987, an decaying city. The player controls five characters, including two FBI agents, a young game designer, her father, and a clown. The game is full of references to old games designed by Ron Gilbert, Gary Winnick and their colleagues and seems to target, at least in part, their long-time fans.

Just like I had hoped, Thimbleweed Park did not look too polished. Ron Gilbert seemed to be focused more on content than on presentation. Again, I do not and would never deny the importance of presentation, but I am curious about a game where most of the effort is focused on creating deep, meaningful content. Ron Gilbert’s blog entries talked a lot about storylines and about puzzles. There were a lot of posts about art too, but the art seemed to be kept efficient, and manageable.

When I remember Ron Gilbert’s main games, the Monkey Island games as well as Maniac Mansion, they were not just interactive stories, but they were worlds with strong storylines that the player could fully explore in a narrative way. Not in an RPG way. There were no monsters to kill, but you could make any joke available to any character without fear of consequence, just to see how they would react. That’s a narrative form of exploration. At the same time, the secrets of these worlds would slowly be unveiled to you. I was hoping the new game would be like that.

The problem with Thimbleweed Park

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But to me, Thimbleweed Park was not like that. That world, while intriguing, seriously lacked tension. The mysteries felt flat. The jokes were interesting references, but were not funny. I found one character truly compelling: Delores. Franklin, her father also came off as sympathetic, but mostly again because of the way he related to her. Delores was a fully-realized character. He story was interesting; he dialog was funny; her goals were easy to identify with; the mystery around her was truly puzzling. And the gameplay that came out of that was truly fun. But it also underlined how flat the other characters’ storylines felt in compasion.

Still, overall, my main objection with Thimbleweed Park was how arty it felt. Usually, I approve of artistic ambition in games, but in this case, it came at a very costly price. The game starts with an actually intriguing murder mystery. However, as the game progresses, it slips into a completely meta reflection on itself. This is daring and I’m not sure that the game pulls it off. As banal as is sounds, if we had explored the connection between each citizen of Thimbleweed Park and the murder victim, I think it might have made for a more interesting game.

I would also like to point out that I’ve played the game shortly after its release. At the time, the characters could not talk to each other and there was no hint system. Also, there arcade was closed. I have not played the game since, mostly because I did not enjoy that much the first time. But this inability, now fixed, for the characters to communicate felt terribly wrong. It made the whole world of Thimbleweed Park feel hollow.

Fran Bow

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Fran Bow follows an episode in the life of its title character, a young girl called Fran Bow, who lives in New England in the US in the fifties. In a very long intro scene, we learn has no friends, except for a pet cat. One night, a horrifying creature kills her whole family but she and her cat escape. She ends up in a mental asylum. She is certain that her cat is still alive in the forest. There, she is treated with an experimental medication that gives her terrifying visions. Realizing that, her doctor immediately stops her treatment. But Fran thinks that these pills can help her find her cat.

The game has a very simple interface. Fran can walk, look at things, use things, use dialog trees (always with two options), and swallow a pill. Under the influence of a pill, she can close the pill bottle, with will stop the pill from being effective. While the pills are in effect, she has visions. And, of course, her visions are real. But the player is quickly challenged to questioned what “real” means.

The dialog seems to be written by someone whose native language is not English. There’s an overuse of the phrase, “It’s fine.” The graphics are a bit clumsy. At first, the puzzles are fascinating, but towards the end, I’d accuse the game of puzzle-stuffing. By that, I mean that Natalia Figueroa seemed to want to tell a story but was making a game so she interrupted her story with puzzles that didn’t really need to be there. There are all details. Trifles. Overall, I would argue, that Fran Bow is a true masterpiece. More so than either Thimbleweed Park or Broken Age.

What works with Fran Bow

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Fran Bow perfectly mixes a deep, complex story with compelling gameplay. It’s hard to talk about without giving too much away but there’s one thing that I can say with confidence about Fran Bow: at every step of the way, I thought, “Oh, I know exactly where this is going” and at every step I was wrong. The game was several step away from me. This was true of both the story and the gameplay and in both cases, they were really the same thing.

This also happened for Thimbleweed Park, but not in the same direction. I’d think, “Oh, I think I know where this is going…” but it went in a different direction but I wish it had gone in the direction I had wanted. That’s less good.

Fran Bow plays with its own rules constantly, but never ignores them. For example, you think you know how the pills work, but you don’t. Even though the rules of how the pills work are as given to you, they never change. You just don’t have all the element yet to understand what those rules mean.

Also, Fran Bow is long. Every time, I thought I was near the end, I realized I was nowhere near it. And every time I thought the tone of the game had changed completely, I realized that it really had not. I was just fooled into mistaking a temporary alcove for a whole new structure.

Image result for fran bow

Fran visits deep, complex worlds. She interacts with strange, complex people. She herself is worth getting to know. Her world is fascinating and full. Fran Bow also shows strong authorship. One can clearly tell is is the work of a dedicated author with a vision. It has flaws, but its flaws make it better. It allows to hang onto it, unlike a completely smooth surface that a player or other art appreciator would just slip off of.

I have no idea what Natalia Figueroa will do next. I’d say there’s no way she’ll do something as good as this next time, but, honestly, there was almost no way she’d do something nearly as good as Fran Bow the first time, so, in all fairness, all best are off.

Final note about Thimbleweed Park

One thing about Thimbleweed Park that is probably worth noting is its engine. Based on the game’s development blog, it looks like the engine for Thimbleweed Park could be an amazing tool to make new adventure games. Ron Gilbert, who was, after all, the lead developer of the legendary SCUMM engine, put a huge amount of effort into making it. He did say he would consider releasing the engine but made no promises.

It is not unheard of that when a game splits its effort between its content and its engine, it cannot deliver as much of its content as one might hope. I’d argue that’s why the first Assassin’s Creed had much more repetitive content than the second one. For the first game, the whole rules of how the game was played, the mechanics and most likely the engine had to be built. The second game only had to build on that.

I know a lot of people loved Thimbleweed Park. I have high hopes for its engine.

Why no dialog trees in Go, Jill!

My current side project is a text adventure tentatively called Go, Jill!. I want it to be a mostly-free roaming world with a main linear story where the player character, the titular Jill, will be able to talk about a lot of things to a lot of people. But one thing I don’t want is dialog trees.

Interactive story and branching

Dialog trees are very similar to the concept of branching stories. Usually, when people hear the term “interactive story” they think of branching story. It seems to make sense, right? How else is a story going to be interactive? In fact, there are many arguments that can be made both in favor of and against branching in interactive stories. Most of them were masterfully presented in the book Interactive Storytelling for Video Games.

In general, branching gives a better sense of agency, and that’s a good thing. But, as counterbalance to that, branching carries many downsides, some of which are:

  • It’s hard to write one good story, let alone several good ones.
  • Similarly, in a scripted story (as opposed to an improvised one), a good plot is usually made by planting narrative seeds that will bear fruit later. This is further complicated if the story branches.
  • A story should generally be surprising. If it branches, people will either be progressing at random or not be surprised.
  • Generally, the end of a story either presents a conclusion or a clearly purposeful sense of non-conclusiveness (like The Sopranos). If the story branches, one may always have the impression that the conclusion they saw is only one of many and that often feels wrong.

An ending being only one of many if fine if the game one plays is really set to make people construct their own narrative. Several role-playing games are made precisely to allow that. However, while they are clearly set in a narrative-like world, they don’t have an actual narrative in the generally accepted sense of the term. The ending the players arrive at simply did not exist before they played. It is not one of many pre-existing ones.

Dialog trees

Dialog trees are mostly a form of branching. Even if great care is placed in making sure that they never have negative consequences (like Ron Gilbert did) every time a choice is made it usually prevents another one. In a game of strategy that’s good, but in a narrative context, that’s bad. Furthermore, most dialog trees don’t take the care Ron Gilbert did and actively use dialog trees to alter the course of the story and branch it out.

And here, we have many problems. The first one is that characters usually know more about their own world than the player does. That’s something that very visible in David Cage’s work. A character can open a drawer and find a photo than makes him sad. The player had no way of knowing that the photo would be there, but the character did. At the end, such choices are just random to the player.

Dialog trees are just like that only more so. When we talk to someone in life, we usually have a good idea of what will offend them and what will make them happy. In games, it’s mostly luck. It’s actually worse than luck because the narration of the games forces it to be surprising, on an innocent-sounding phrase is unpredictably likely to turn out to be offensive to a character for the sake of drama. If it weren’t, the story would be boring.

Also, some of the choices offered in dialog trees might be a lot less subtle than what the player has in mind. Let’s say a character asks the player “Should I go talk to my friend about her husband being unfaithful?” and the possible choices are “Yes,” “No,” and “I don’t know, maybe.” And answer like “Yes” can lead to

  • “You totally should. You’d be a horrible friend if you didn’t.”
  • Or “Yeah. I think so. If you don’t and she found out you knew, she’s going to blame you for it.”
  • Or “If you want. I mean, it’s your decision.”
  • Or “Sure. I’ll go with you. I can’t wait to see the bitch go down!”
  • Or “Yes. Let’s go to the café that just opened downtown.”

Even if the whole first line is given, the conversation might end up having the player character say things that the player never expected.

This is randomness, and randomness and storytelling don’t go well together. This is one of the areas where it is particularly tough for story and gameplay to merge. As Jesse Schell is very found of teaching, randomness is generally good for games. He also likes to say that story is often good for games as well. For my part, I’ll add that randomness is usually terrible for stories.

My alternative

Let’s be sensible: for point-and-click games, dialog trees are still the best solution. But Go, Jill! is going to be a text adventure. For that medium, dialog trees can easily be a bad decision. It’s very important to use one’s medium as much as possible. And I have a blog post about just that topic. For a text adventure, I always found dialog trees to be clunky. A sort of haphazard interface inside of the main interface. Text adventures do not have a perfect interface, obviously, but throwing a dialog tree in the middle of it takes away their main attribute: free exploration or at least the illusion of it. If I’m playing a text adventure, I like to feel like I can type anything. I know that only a few words will actually work, but if I play along and the game is well made, that feeling can still hold.

Some people often like to say that text adventures are misleading because they claim the user can type anything in the input field but only very few of these commands will work. First of all, a list of suggested commands were usually distributed with games at the time. Second, all games restrict actions. Try and have Mario walk in front of a pipe in the 2D games! Get Nathan Drake to talk the people who are shooting at him into changing sides! Take a saw and try dividing up those Tetris tiles! Go ahead, do it! Games are restrictive by nature. Text adventures, like all games, try to use their limitations to be better from them, as opposed to artificially build clutter and pretend that those limitations do not exist.

What I intend to do with Go, Jill! is to encourage the players to have Jill ask about and tell about as many things as possible to the non-player characters, with a specific focus on relations between people. It’ll be a lot of content, but I’ll try to make it work. Again, this will mostly be about exploration. The main consequence to most of that content will be the way the player explores and understands the story. With some exceptions, the actual gameplay will be unaffected. So, for example, Jill will be able to ask character A what he thinks of his romantic partner’s relationship with his mother. This will not be a suggested topic, just not I’ll throw in there. If the player tries it, there will be a response.

The idea is that from one same mass of text, each player will be able to explore the parts of the story that they want at will. Progress will depend on them following the main story path, but it will truly be an interactive experience in the way most of the backstory and underlying relationships will only emerge if the player seeks them out.

There is no negative consequence to picking the wrong option because there is no option to pick. There is no frustration for getting to the wrong ending because there is only one ending. But if a player is not interested in an aspect of the backstory or a character’s opinion, they simply won’t have to pursue it. If, on the other hand they want to learn all they can about what most of the characters think about things, that will be available to them with no in-game downside.

This will definitely not be a game one plays to win but one that one plays to explore.

SEECQUEL in restrospect

I just realized I never put up our promo video for SEECQUEL, my team from last semester, on this blog. Well, better late than never, I suppose. Here is, with a bit of a delay, a video about Nature Quest, an application that helps connect children with nature.

I did some backend programming work for that project and a LOT of writing. Even though I saw it coming, it was still a shock to find out how much writing it takes to get a few minutes’ worth of gameplay experience to have good dialog and good interaction.

Why do we even have adventure games?

Illustration from Pride and PrejudiceNow that I’m among people who love and make games all the time, a question that has surrounded me for years keeps presenting itself in ever-varying ways: why do we even have adventure games? How did they ever get popular? Why are so many people trying to bring them back?

Surely, adventure games aren’t really games, are they? There’s usually one possible outcome. You follow a story that you don’t even get to influence, unlike role-playing games, where the players actually get to make the story in many ways. Sure, there are a few puzzles to solve, but really you might as well watch a movie or TV series and you can get pretty much the same thing and not have to click for hours to get it.

Actually, there is something to that last point: adventure games are in many ways closer to TV series than to many other games. And their purpose is much closer to television than to, say, a fighting game.

A few days ago, I was watching an episode of the TV series Once Upon a Time with my roommate. That episode ended with a revelation about how a character in the “A” plot matched a character in the “B” plot. This a very common technique in Once Upon a Time. About two-thirds through the episode, my roommate exclaimed, “I just figured out who he is!” There was an implicit tone of contest: I had not figured it out. I actually had not even figured out that there was a new connection made in this episode. After that point, I started thinking about it and I figured it out too. When the episode ended, our assumption was confirmed: we had gotten it right.

In many stories, though, the fun actually comes from getting it wrong and being surprised by that failure. In his game design class at Carnegie Mellon, Jess Schell refutes the claim that some entertainment, like television, is passive, and some, like games, is active. He claims — and makes a very good case for it — that all entertainment is active. The way my roommate and I put active effort into figure out that part of Once Upon a Time is a clear illustration of that.

Note that here was no explicit challenge presented to us. Nor was there an explicit mystery in the show, unlike, for example, in a murder mystery where the identity of the killer is presented as an explicit challenge. The implicit nature of the mystery did not make it in any way less compelling.

Now, one could argue that the challenge was, still mechanical and that it comes from one of the series main, for the lack of a better word, “mechanics.” But this sort of engagement is present throughout fiction. Let’s take Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice as an example. Jane Austen was certainly not writing a television series nor a video game. In it, two characters make a claim directly related to each other’s moral and social status: Mr Darcy claims that Mr Wickham is an immoral man who should not be trusted and who, if one allows oneself to give him any credit, will use his influence to perform harmful actions. Mr Wickham, on the other hand, claims that Mr Darcy is cold ad unfeeling and that he takes pleasure in belittling others in order to increase his own sense of heightened self-esteem. The reader is asked to take sides, just as implicitly and just as actively as in Once Upon a Time. And the challenge is just as balanced as any video game is balanced. On the one hand, the central character, the though who we actually view the story, is very much inclined to side with Mr Wickham. She presents evidence against Mr Darcy that is reinforced by the fact that it is the point-of-view character that’s presenting it. On the other hand, we also know that Mr Darcy is one of the main characters and we know that the title of the work is “Pride and Prejudice, or First Impressions” which strongly indicates that false perception will be a important component of the story.

A fan painting of Guybrush ThreepwoodA more explicit way of seeing this is when a story is told in person. One should always make the most of their medium in all circumstances. I have another blog post precisely about that. When telling a story in person, it’s usually a good idea to tell it in such a way that the person (or people) you’re telling it to can interrupt. Actually, scripted stories in which a story is told very ofter use that technique. If someone who’s telling a story in person in a way that could allow interruptions outright rejections them, for example by saying something like, “Please, don’t interrupt me. I‘m telling the story”, they are simply neglecting their mediam.

Adventure games reverse the order in which that participation occurs in the story. Instead of leaving places where to say, “guess what happens now?”, they are constantly saying, “Guess what happens now?”

Unlike games like the Professor Leyton series, an excellent series of games, but not adventure games, in actual adventure games, the story is not present to frame the puzzles, but the puzzles are present to enhance interaction with the story. Tim Schafer’s Day of the Tentacle provide an excellent example of puzzles that work to enhance storytelling-focused gameplay. While action games give players the opportunity to direct fighting parts, or the navigating part of stories in an interactive format, adventure games let players play with the “Guess what’s next?” part. There’s more to it of course, but this is the main spirit that drives them.

So, in short, adventure games are a digital medium that is centered on the part of storytelling that makes us feel like saying, “Let me see if I can guess what happens next.”

First steps: Frotz in Eclipse

I’ve looked at a lot of the Frotz source code. It’s undeniably simple and yet, it’s a big challenge for me. First of all, it is a virtual machine, no matter how you want to put it. Second, it’s not really that well commented. I’m still pretty enthusiastic about the whole thing. One aspect I had actually completely overlooked is how this project is getting me much close to Eclipse.


Eclipse logo

Eclipse is a very popular Java-based IDE, or Integrated Development Environment. Originally made for Java, it has been adapted for most languages one could reasonably expect it to work with, including of course C and C++. The needs of this project and the time constraints encourage me to use Eclipse and to use it in a more efficient way I have so far.

I’m using it to find out where variables and functions have been declared automatically, for example. It has more than one feature that help with that.

Real-life code

Frotz is definitely real-life code. I’m not in a world of textbooks anymore. This is an example of a comment I found:

For a very different example, I found this nifty piece of code that takes a full filepath and only keeps the basename:

This uses pointers and the fact that in C, there are no strings but zero-terminated character arrays. I actually like seeing a real-life example of this sort of thing.

To be continued.

My topic: analyzing and extending Frotz

Ah, Frotz. The most popular Z-machine and now glulx interpreter out there… Let’s back up for a while.


The first commercially available text-based adventure game was Zork I by Infocom in 1980. It was based on its almost-namesake Zork, that was made at MIT and only ran on big mainframes. For the commercial version, Infocom needed a very simple and versatile format. So they created the Z-machine format. Its only output was text, so interpreters for it could be made for pretty much any platform — and it was.

After Infocom

To my knowledge, the last commercial text-based adventure game was Eric the Unready. After that time, a new interpreter for Z-machine files ended up being necessary. A few appeared. The most popular ended up being Frotz, a command-line tool for Unix. Frotz was eventually ported to many systems, including Windows and more recently iOS.

Adventure games are not dead. Well, maybe not

Even though the number of people who play adventure games has shrunk and the number of people who play text-based adventure games or “Interactive Fiction” or simply IF is now tiny, a small community remains. New tools were made for creating new pieces of IF. Some were brand new, some compiled to the old Z-machine format. At the forefront of that latter category was the Inform programming language and its accompanying system, both created by Graham Nelson, a British poet and mathematician.

As the Z-machine had never been meant to be used by the public before, there was never a standard for it. Graham Nelson established one, aptly called the Z-machine standard in 1997. It has been updated since to version 1.1 in 2004. These standards are now used by most Z-machine interpreters.

A short note about Inform

Graham Nelson’s Inform language was very simple up to version 6. What made it a very powerful tool is that it came built-in with IF-specific rules. IF does require many rules to for the world of the story to behave in the way we as human players expect. These rules could be overwritten, but Inform did not require the programmer to write them. Example of rules could be that if an object is marked as being a container, it can contain other objects. However, an object cannot contain itself. This seems obvious to humans, but has to be coded in order to be in the world. Inform 7 goes much further and actually reads like English. It can still compile to the Z-machine format.

What I intend to do with all that

My independent study this semester will be the following:

  • analyze the Z-machine, using existing interpreters as well as Graham Nelson’s standards,
  • expose parts of the story inside the Z-machine and
  • display the information I gathered in the Windows interface in the Frotz for Windows interpreter.

I don’t know for sure how much of these I’ll be able to do, apart for the first one. But the Z-machine has such a reputation for being a very simple virtual machine that I hope I’ll be able to do all of them.

Indiecade review and highlights

That’s it, Indiecade is over. This is my second conference ever, the first one was GDC earlier this year. A comparison feels apropos.

First of all, the average quality of the speakers at Indiecade does not quite match the incredibly high standards of GDC. But the mood is a different thing entirely. The mood at Indiecade was all about fun. It’s a lot more relaxed. There are much, much fewer people and they seem to be here much more to be here and a lot less because their profession or obligations dictate that they should. Not to say that GDC wasn’t fun and interesting, but the overall “vibe” was more directed, focused. People came to accomplish something and did it. Indiecade was about trying, wandering, discovering, not knowing what to expect.

At GDC, I carefully planned where I wanted to go. At Indiecade, I let myself follow some sort of flow. Some things seemed utterly pointless while some were nothing short of astonishing. There were astonishing things at GDC as well, of course, but the difference was that at Indiecade, the astonishment came without warning, at any time, in any context. Be it about games, technology, general information or just who happened to be in the audience at the time.

Gorogoa, by Jason Roberts

The first wow moment of Indiecade for me was the incredible Gorogoa. It’s a graphical adventure with a mechanic like no other. The innovative nature of its gameplay leaves Loom in the dust. It’s beautiful, moving, fascinating, engaging, surprising and a lot of other good things. It’s, on the other hand, not close to finish and, at the time of writing, quite a bit buggy. The goal of Gorogoa is, apparently, to help a young boy defeat a monster that’s ravaging a city. In order to do this, the boy seems to want to collect color-coded MacGuffins. Nothing too original so far. What makes the game magical is that rather than control a character or his environment, the sets in the game are made of Photoshop or animation cell-like layers and the player gets to re-arrange them to reshape the world, changing the meaning of each shape as it shifts contexts and the meaning of the resulting image. The graphical style of the game is like a nineteenth century engraving, delicate, detailed, organic and understated. It’s a work that could only exist in its medium and that pushes the limits of what I, for one, would have considered within the realm of a single person’s imagination.

Still, I find Gorogoa somehow reminiscent of the experimental works of the French comic book artist, Marc-Antoine Matthieu. Particularly his Julius-Corentin Acquefacques, prisonnier des rêves series as well as his stand-along comic Le Dessin.

Renga, by Wallfour

On Saturday night, I saw a hundred people play Renga by Wallfour. Wallfour, with Renga, has solved what I believe to be a huge problem with many users sending input to a single screen in a way that’s easy to understand: they used laser pointers. A hundred people joined forces to interact with a single using nothing other than laser pointers. The whole experience was fun and riveting. They used a perfect mix of technology and, of all things, stage know-how and dramatic structure.

Super Hexagon, by Terry Cavanagh

Everyone at Indiecade seemed to be playing Super Hexagon, an extremely simple game that got me hooked even though I’m still not sure why. The gameplay is ridiculously simple but irresistibly engaging.

Prom Week screenshotProm Week and more

The final highlight I want to address here is a project that I believe has a huge future in entertainment in many ways: Prom Week. It was not, however, a surprise because I had tried it before. What was a hugh surprise was that I got to meet Aaron Reed, author of what is probably the most remarkable work of interactive fiction in existence so far, Blue Lacuna. There’s a saying: “don’t meet your heroes.” The meaning is supposed to be, “they’ll never live up to your expectations.” In this case it meant, “He will well beyond your wildest expectations and you’ll make a complete fool of yourself in front of him. Or feel like you did.”

Prom Week has a new interface, which is a huge improvement on the old release. I got to speak with Prom Week team member Ben Samuel whose enthusiasm was infectious. He told me a bit about the engine. I still have high hopes for their engine Comme Il Faut, even though, apparently, it is not available for independent distribution quite yet.

Sill, my main takeaway from Indiecade was to have actually met the author of Blue Lacuna, which, to my great shame, I haven’t finished yet. I should really get done with that.

I’m in print!

My essay, “Time Tech and Tales”, will be in the next issue of Well Played, the peer-reviewed journal on video games, value and meaning, edited by the amazing Drew Davidson. It will available for sale in a couple of weeks, but like all ETC Press publications, it will also be available for free from the ETC Press website.

“Time Tech and Tales” is about the history of narration in video games and its potential future, centering on the example of Monkey Island 2: LeChuck’s Revenge and Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney and the evolution between those two games. It also briefly covers the recent emergence of “niche games.”

Game Jam entry: Eternal Guardian

My group’s entry for the 2012 Game Jam was called Eternal Guardian. It can be found on the Game Jam’s website. It was made with PyGame, so it works on any platform that supports PyGame: Windows, Mac, Linux and most Unices.

The theme this year was the Ouroboros, the serpent that bites its tail. We made a game on the theme of sustainability and renewal. A Mayan city in peril is granted the help of the snake god from the incoming peril. But protecting the city is not as straightforward as it seems.

As this was made for the Global Game Jam, the whole game, art included, was made in less than 48 hours. Programming was done by Daniel Langdon, Andrew Sweet and me. Daniel was great at solving what turned out to be very tricky math problems. Andrew as our local PyGame expert. I took care of the sound. And all the art was done by Jame Threefoot.

When will all the classics come?

Last Friday, Extra Credits team members James Portnow and Daniel Floyd did a Q and A with some of their fans. I happened to catch the end of it. One of the points that James Portnow made was how the great classics of games had not been made yet. I am quoting from memory here as, at the time of writing, a recording on the talk has not been put on line yet. I think the question was where in the history of game we were. Everyone seems to agree that we’re at the very beginning of huge things to come. I cannot honestly deny that I share that impression. But Portnow went further and said (if I remember correctly) that the game equivalent (and he meant equivalent as in role in history, I think, not in content) of The Odyssey or of Hamlet or Dante’s work had not been made yet. I don’t remember clearly which tiles he quoted. At some point he mentioned a nineteenth century title and pointed out that there was a huge gap between The Odyssey and that title. This is, obviously, true.

Still, there is one aspect that he seemed to have ignored. Classics were not always classics. Joyce and Proust were never popular writers. Neither was Descartes for that matter. But many authors that we now consider classics and force reluctant children to read while they’d rather be watching TV, going to the movies or (how shameful!) be playing video games were precisely considered the popular entertainment of their time. Two names come to mind in this category: Shakespeare and Dickens. As a French person, I’d like include Corneille in the list, and maybe even Molière. Balzac certainly fits the description. Idle children in the nineteenth century, instead of doing something productive, used to read Dickens or Balzac, or some other pointless, easy and potentially immoral readings. Now these are assigned as schoolwork.

The Far Side: Hopeful ParentsI’m not sure we can be certain that games that were made as early as the eighties or maybe the seventies will not fit that description some day. But it would be unwise to categorically assume otherwise.