New Rule

The other day I gave a lecture on the importance of criticism in game design, and I drew a parallel to ideas from my undergraduate study in philosophy. One of the tenets of Western philosophy is the idea of debate and defensibility as proof of merit. Simply put, philosophers debate ideas because they hold that the ability of an idea to withstand constant attack is proof of the merit of the idea. If you can argue and examine and criticize a thought until you hit the floor and fail to find significant flaw, then the idea is sound and should be respected. Conversely, if you find your idea shakes to pieces in the face of concerted scrutiny, then it was obviously broken and in need of revision.

I have long considered this to be true of all ideas, including creative works like pieces of art. Ruthless critique is supposed to be one of the great benefits of formal art education: you expose yourself to your peers and they do their duty by ripping your work to shreds. That way, they reveal all the weaknesses you missed and enable you to repair them and, in so doing, improve yourself. I argued in the lecture that, as creative works, games are no different. They must be subjected to ceaseless, brutal criticism to ensure that all the flaws are hammered out.

Many designers I have read believe that games are only truly observable when in motion, or during play. That’s when all the flaws become apparent, and it’s why playtesting is so important. From playtests comes the exposure of the flaws and the criticism necessary to fix them. However, I took it one step further. I argued that games are in need of critical attention not only because they are ideas, but because they are participatory. I claim that games need two cooperating agents to be complete: a designer and a player. The designer contributes their creative vision and effort in constructing the game — the rules, the tokens and board, the software, etc. — but what the designer is really doing is constructing the potential for a game. The game does not exist until someone puts into motion: the player. By contributing their effort and their personal experience, the player’s perspective combines with that of the designer (as represented by the system they have created) and creates a fully real, complete game.

One could argue that all media is two-way in this fashion — that movies and books require readers and viewers as much as they need authors and directors. They do need these things, but not in the same way. Media like these exist in a complete state prior to the participation of a user. A film or a book is a complete work, crafted in its entirety by the author, fixed and immutable regardless of who watches or reads it. To change it later on — either by the original author, in the form of a revision, or by a user, in the form of an adaptation — would be a separate act of creation. Here, the difference is clear: by contrast, games cannot be considered finished until they are played, and thus, games require a player to become fully real.

I have heard it said that music written on a page is not yet music — it is something else, something pure and abstract, a potentiality only. I have even heard it said that sheet music is the closest thing to the composer’s original vision, and it’s true: the sheet music is the composer’s contribution to the creation — their “half,” if you will. But not until a musician puts it to their instrument does the music come into being, and then it is as the musician interprets it. From the collaboration — composer and musician — the music is created. Each recital of the piece is a different creative work, unique in time and space, and each musician that plays is is co-creator. I see games the same way.

Tags: Game Criticism, General //