Call for Feature Essays About Any Aspect of Popular Culture, Present or Past

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Friday, Jun 19, 2009

Valkyria Chronicles is a unique game within the genre of turn-based strategy games. It’s a mix of that classic slow paced strategy with the fast action of a third-person shooter. But the most unique feature of the game is its surprisingly well defined supporting cast. Since these characters are not part of the main story, their development must be done outside the narrative of the game. Valkyria Chronicles manages this with a system of menus, descriptive traits, and the slow reveal of each character’s past.

In other turn-based strategy games, players build up their army by recruiting low-level soldiers with no special skills and then train them into something useful. Since these soldiers are not part of the main story they have no personality, no back story, and no individuality. Not so in Valkyria Chronicles.

From the very beginning we’re encouraged to view the supporting cast as real characters and not as cannon fodder needed to fill out our team. When selecting our squad for the first time in the Command Room, we pick from a list of 30 potential candidates. The first thing players will notice is that every character on the list looks different. From their facial features, hair color, hair style, skin color, or age, there’s no mistaking one for another. Each is visually unique and easily identifiable, and certain soldiers are guaranteed to stand out to certain players based solely on appearances.

Next to each picture is a small list of character traits. Some soldiers may be described as a “Hard Worker” or a “Challenge Lover” or “Meadow Bred.” These traits are not just descriptions but have tangible effects on the battlefield. A “Hard Worker” will occasionally get to take an extra action during a turn. A “Challenge Lover” gets a boost in attack power when charging into the fray and being “Meadow Bred” increases one’s defense while in grassy meadows. Since these advantages and disadvantages are worded as actual behaviors and not just statistics, they help solidify the personality of each character. The player quickly learns what soldier has what trait and how to best use those traits to gain an advantage on the front lines. For example, I’ll always send a “Challenge Lover” or “Hard Worker” to mount an attack because those traits make them well suited for direct combat, and I’ll never use someone who’s “Meadow Bred” while in a city. I’m encouraged to use the character in a way that reinforces their personality, and in doing so, those traits written in the Command Room menu become a self-fulfilling depiction of that personality.

Also next to each picture and below the list of traits are three names of people that this character likes. These aren’t random names; they’re other soldiers and potential squad mates. Trying to follow this web of relationships can be daunting if a player tries to map it out, but what’s important is that these characters all know each other. They all live in the same world and have their own set of friends and enemies. When following this web, there’s a sense that we’re stepping into the middle of a world that exists beyond the player, that the story of Valkyria Chronicles is just one story within a larger world. These characters had lives before the official story began and will continue on after the official story ends.

In addition to all the information given to us in the Command Room when selecting squad members, each character has a short biography, but in the beginning of the game, these bios are woefully short and don’t offer any personal information to flesh out the characters beyond what we already know from the Command Room. However, the more we use a character in battle, the longer their bio becomes. Like any relationship, the more time that we spend with someone the more that we learn about them. By requiring the player to use a character in battle before we can learn any of their back story, the game limits the number of potential characters we might come to care about. While this action seems counter-progressive, it’s inevitable that when dealing with a large group of people some of them will remain strangers, and by limiting the number of relationships we can build, those characters we do come to care about are made to stand out from the rest of the squad. These are the people that we have fought alongside over and over again. We grow attached to them just through this repeated use and that attachment is then bolstered by progressive character development. By the time a character’s bio is filled, we’ve fought enough battles with them and learned enough about them that we have developed a real relationship with them. And as we learn more about their history with each battle, they become less stereotypical and more multi-dimensional, becoming teammates who we genuinely mourn for when they die and all of this is accomplished without a single line of dialogue.

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Wednesday, Jun 17, 2009
A player's achievement is often measured in excess violence.

Last week, I began a blog post by quoting from James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man.  I discussed a passage in which Stephen Daedalus argues with his friend Lynch about the appropriate and inappropriate apprehension of art.  I largely focused on Daedalus’ discussion of what he calls, “pornographical or didactic” art, which he associates with art that produces “kinetic” (or moving) rather than static (or sublime) emotions.  These former more viscreal emotional responses, he claims, are what are produced when the arts excite in their viewers the feelings of desire or loathing. 

Since I largely focused on examining video game production of images and behaviors that produce desire in players (largely, I discussed the tendency to enjoy visual stimulation of an erotic or pleasing nature, like buxom bikini babes and piñatas in love), I thought that I would discuss the seemingly strange phenomena of evoking loathing in video game players through similar kinds of visual stimulation and how and why that might be a pleasing “kinetic” experience. 

On the face of it, the notion of producing repellent or ugly images would seem to be a less than sound means of producing visual stimulation that might be appreciated and create pleasure in an audience.  Nevertheless, Daedalus is not crazy when he recognizes that art of a pornographic nature (and I assume by his definition, he means art that arouses a kind of basic and visceral reaction in its audience) has very often been dependent not merely on erotic visuals or even those that are obviously pleasingly “cute.”  Instead, it often celebrates the kind of imagery that produces definitely kinetic experiences, nausea, fear, and dread.

When Daedalus discusses such concepts he brings up what he deems appropriate forms of art that lean towards less than pleasing subject matter, the tragic modes of art and other forms of art that focus on observing suffering.  Certainly, while a play like Hamlet, for instance, has pleasing moments and even funny moments, the arc of the story will end in suffering and, well, tragedy.  Daedalus does not feel that tragedy in of itself is a bad subject matter per se—there may be to him (and Aristotle, on whom rests much of the basis of his thinking on the matter), a clearly cathartic and thus positive purpose in witnessing tragedy—however, witnessing the tragic and its myriad forms of suffering for their own sake may border on the “pornographic” in his estimation.

The loathsomeness of viewing suffering curiously does provoke a kind of appeal in many audiences.  Think of the moment before the knife (or chainsaw) falls in a horror movie. The image is clearly a repellent one; the viewer reacts kinetically to it by raising his hands to cover his eyes.  Yet, despite this physical manifestation of repulsion, you just can’t help peeking through your fingers to see the final blow, to witness the literal enactment of suffering.  While repellent, their may be something magnetic about that which horrifies.

Generating repulsive climactic experiences for players of video games to not only observe but also to enact has a fairly long and storied history, much of which has generated a great deal of hue and cry from social and political activists about the brutal nature of video games.  Despite such outcry, though, the Mortal Kombat series, for instance, seems a brand grounded on the display of gratuitously repellent imagery.  While Street Fighter II and the fighting game genre generated a kind of renaissance in arcade gaming in 1991, it was its more infamous 1992 cousin that attracted additional fans to the genre.  Mortal Kombat had similar qualities to the Street Fighter series, fast-paced, reflex-driven tactical hand-to-hand combat that could be shared with an opponent willing to pony up a quarter to challenge you, but unlike other attempts to cash in on the successfulness of Capcom’s game, Mortal Kombat offered a myriad variety of not just special moves to learn in combat but special moves called “fatalities” that enabled spectacular executions to complete the humiliation of a vanquished opponent.  During this brief period in which players would gather around arcade machines and place quarters along the top edge of a console to mark their desire to challenge an opponent, players of Mortal Kombat prided themselves on their ability to not only win a Mortal Kombat match but to show off their combat prowess by vanquishing their foe with a finishing move.  Since each of the seven original fighters had their own unique way of brutally killing their opponents, the game rewarded experimentation and replaying the game as each of the characters in order to witness these loathsome and yet strangely compelling sequences.  Part of the appeal of the fatality was in seeing some new grotesque method of finishing off a downed opponent.  Scorpion burning Johnny Cage to death was quite a sight but Sub-Zero tearing the head and spine from Sonia was even more astonishing to see and hard to look away from.

Much like the visual rewards of the more desirable images featured in games that, again, I discussed last week, loathsome imagery also seems to frequently be featured as a kind of visual reward to the competent or proficient player of a game.  The reward in seeing the event is even often even more dynamically demonstrated through systems that measure violence in points.

While a game like Tony Hawk might reward a player for visually stunning combinations of tricks, piling up points for the player able to keep up a consistent stream of amazing tricks, the aesthetics of violence in more recent games are often measured in similar ways.  Consider how Tony Hawk‘s trick-based point system is transformed to measure not the beauty of “athleticism” but the beauty of brutality in Devil May Cry.  While Hawk‘s system rewards efficient and elegant visual spectacle, Devil May Cry celebrates the efficiency and elegance of execution.  A player’s achievement is measured in excess violence.

Interestingly, this excess of violence is treated in an overtly pornographic fashion in the Devil May Cry series for as many spectacularly brutal images in a DMC game there are usually as many overtly sexual ones.  In Devil May Cry 4, for instance, the sexual and the brutal find themselves wed at times.  One particular example is found in a scene in which Dante finishes off a foe with a (literally) romantic flourish (he grips a rose in his teeth at the center of a giant heart) and brags about how well he “thrusts” and “penetrates” with his blade.  Devil May Cry seems more than self aware about the similar visceral responses that it evokes through both desirable and loathsome imagery.

Such measures of violent achievement continue to be regarded as a central aesthetic in a host of games but probably most recently in a really obvious and self aware fashion in Mad World.  Like Devil May Cry, MadWorld offers a cartoonish and half serious approach to the subject of violence.  However, the sheer grotesqueness and loathsomeness of its imagery is even more overtly tied to rewarding excess.  Since the premise of MadWorld is the notion that violence is being treated as a spectacle in a near future version of western civilization, the idea that the protagonist must perpetrate ever more hideous displays for the sake of a viewing audience at home makes the reward of gaining more points to advance the plot through more grisly ways of harming others into an aesthetic tied directly to the mechanics of gameplay itself.  It also mirrors a sports culture tied to observing violence with color commentators that react to and gush over the level of violence that you, as the protagonist, are capable of enacting.  Beating someone to death in MadWorld scores few points but impaling them with a street sign before beating them to death scores much more.  Given that advancement is based on high scoring, more varied and grotesque kills are encouraged by the reward system of the game itself.  Of course, given the stylish art and the contrast created by the three colors of the world (red for blood and black and white for everything else), it is clear what the player’s attention is intended to be focused on throughout, the spectacle of the most aesthetically pleasing bloodbath possible.

There seems to me to be a subtle difference between the types of images that video games create for the player to interact with be they motivated by desirability or loathsomeness.  The tendency to make images that are desirable into something collectible (be it the swimsuit collections to dress the beauties of Dead or Alive Beach Volleyball or the cards that represent the conquered beauties of The Witcher) whereas the loathsome images of violence tend to become a commodity that demonstrates the player’s talent for violence that can be transferred into measurable achievements like “points.”  This difference might be reduced though to the tendency for visual stimulation to become a way of transforming bodies into commodities, though.  Bodies become commodities to be collected in games that motivate the player through visual desirability while bodies become commodities to be harvested in games that motivate the player through the spectacle of loathsomeness.

Author’s Note: Those interested in these topics of visual stimulation as a reward or motivator in games may want to check out the links to reviews of the games cited in the above essay. Most of those reviews address these topics in greater detail as they relate to those particular games, including the ones about Dead or Alive, Viva Piñata, and Devil May Cry).

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Tuesday, Jun 16, 2009
How various people cope with too much gaming.


Burn out in video games is something you learn to expect because most games require a greater time investment than the average book or film. As Jason Rohrer pointed out in his talk “Game and Other Four Letter Words,” many people actually consider a game’s lasting appeal to be founded on how many hours of your life you can dump into it. Yet if someone handed you a DVD and told you that it would take 20 hours to finish, to some it could be considered a threat. People who play games professionally, as a hobby, or for work, all have to balance their love of the medium with the fact that sometimes it can be too much. An essay on how to overcome burn-out breaks the process down in several steps. First, figure out what’s making you upset. Then, get some sleep, take time to reflect on the issue, and maximize your free time by relaxing. Eat healthy foods and listen to soothing music. The article makes a point of saying that video games or surfing the net are NOT relaxing because you’re still mentally working and stressing yourself out. Which leads to an interesting problem for people who rely on games as a form of relaxation: when does the game stop being fun and start to feel like work?

From Final Fantasy Tactics Advance 2

From Final Fantasy Tactics Advance 2

I bounced an e-mail off several people from various parts of the industry concerning this issue. Chris Dahlen is a freelance journalist who does a lot of work outside of video games. For him, burn-out only comes when he has to work with a game that he doesn’t really care for. He comments, “I’ve never spent so much time with games that I got truly, gutwrenchingly sick of ‘em.  Family stuff and other hassles get in the way first.  But when I’m reviewing a game I can’t stand, it definitely feels like work.  I get impatient.  I stop hanging around and checking out the nuances.  I keep jumping online to figure out how much longer I have left, how many missions I went through, how many hours it takes to finish.” That’s a sentiment that Michael Abbott echoes, who is a full time professor at Wabash College in addition to writing for PopMatters and running a video game blog. He writes, “Burnout rarely occurs because I usually play games as a respite from other hard, time-consuming things like teaching, parenting, and making theater. When I pick up a game to play, I’m nearly always looking forward to that activity well in advance of doing it, and carving out dedicated time to play probably makes me treasure that time even more. The only exceptions are the few times I’ve had to review games I don’t enjoy.” The mark of burnout in two people who don’t work with video games fulltime is when they’re forced to work with a game they don’t like. Whereas a bad movie is over in an hour or two, a game requires a real investment. When that falls apart, everything else goes with it for the player.

From Lumines

From Lumines

Yet for some people it’s going to be games, games, and again games so that playing things that are appealing is not always an option. Kieron Gillen is a game journalist and comic book author who has worked with numerous publications for years. The tedium of games comes from an entirely different source for him. He explains, “I went well out of my way to avoid getting stuck as a specialist in any bloody genre as a reviewer. So for the job, stuff gets mixed up and I’m not stuck playing virtually identical RTS for weeks of my life. When I don’t want to play, it’s because of the culture around it. Nothing takes the fun out of a game than a thousand people calling you corrupt for liking it. That’s the danger in being a games journalist.” Leigh Alexander is the news director for Gamasutra and also runs her own private blog on video games. For her, it’s the sheer volume of material that’s constantly outside her own preferences that she’s obliged to work with. A game critic has to stay informed in every genre and that includes titles that are often long epics. She writes, “How I cure burnout is I allow myself to do only what I want to for a bit. I might have this huge stack of brand new this and that, but I let it sit and play Lumines every night until the urge to do something else comes back. I have to take personal ownership of video games back away from my job before I can enjoy them again.”

From Cliffy B.

From Cliffy B.

Yet another totally different take on burning out comes from Steve Gaynor who is a video game designer and is working on Bioshock 2 at the moment. As someone who plays, works on, and constantly reads about video games, the issue is one of quality instead of quantity. He writes, “As far as burnout goes, I honestly more often run into the opposite problem, wherein I wish I had an awesome game to be jamming on and there’s just nothing exciting that’s come out lately…I avoid burnout by having other compelling things going on most of the time, while also keeping up with plenty of game stuff in the background so I always have something to play when there’s nothing else happening. I think it also helps that I don’t have any kind of formal obligations compelling me to play anything, except my own desire to do so.” Such a comment brings the discussion back to that curious desire to not feel like one is being forced to play a video game. Tom Endo, an editor at The Escapist, makes himself read a book every night. He comments, “The thing that helps me is that I’m a videogame tourist. I’m really interested in all genres—for at least an hour or two. Burnout is when I have to play some JRPG for 20+ hours.”  Iroquis Pliskin also suggests engaging with a different form of media or finding a game that is critically praised by everyone. If you’re not working with a game that entices you to keep playing, try one that a lot of people did find engaging.

From Bejeweled 2

From Bejeweled 2

It’s interesting that in each of those explanations is the fear that when a game starts to feel like work it will cease to be fun. You could almost say that that is the difference between any person’s feelings towards a game, the perception of the activity defines what we get out of the experience. For those who get burned out playing games with a lot of grinding and development, the activity might be a little bit too close to what their day jobs are like. Having played games all my life, I think that most of the titles that I stuck with were a counter-point to my routine. When I worked in a hectic kitchen as a line cook, I mostly played slower games that were low on adrenaline and hand-eye coordination. When I was in college it was more cartoony and engaging games that were exciting escapes from the academic routine. Now with the dull monotony of school back I find myself drawn to action, competition, and the other things that I find myself missing in life. Perhaps the real key to preventing burning out on video games is to avoid the ones that you feel like you should be playing and try to stick with the ones that you need.

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Friday, Jun 12, 2009
Silent Hill: Homecoming had all the elements of a psychological survival-horror game but didn’t know how to use them properly.

Silent Hill: Homecoming was largely seen as a departure from the survival-horror genre when it was released last October. However, this entry in the long running series remained true to its genre roots in many ways. Guns were sparse and ammo even more so, there were plenty of puzzles and dark environments, and while the new combat system bothered many long-time fans because it didn’t actively discourage fighting, since it emphasized dodging over attacking, players still felt weak and disadvantaged in each confrontation. But Silent Hill: Homecoming was a departure from form. It took more inspiration from the Silent Hill movie than from the previous games and ended up with many of the same flaws. It had all the elements of a psychological survival-horror game, but didn’t know how to use them properly, and as a result, it felt like more of a departure than it actually was.

One of the staples of the Silent Hill series is the different forms that the town takes on. There’s the Fog World, in which a thick fog covers everything, and there’s the Dark World, a mechanical, metallic hell any fan of the series knows too well.

In previous Silent Hill games, the world changed after players had almost fully explored a particular area. The map for each location would be covered with pen marks indicating which doors were open and which were stuck and where the dead ends and the secret passages were. With a single glance, players could be comforted by this knowledge. They knew where they were, and they knew the fastest path from one room to another. What was once scary was now familiar, but then the world changed. Players were transported to the Dark World and all the previous exploration was made worthless. The map was reset so that not only were players now stuck in a far more frightening environment, they were lost in it.

In Silent Hill: Homecoming the Dark World does not have the same emotional impact. When the world changes, players are still transported to a fearful looking mechanical, metallic hell, but the layout of the environment has also changed. Players are forced down a linear path, so the fear of having to explore this twisted landscape is gone. In one such sequence, players descend into a pit through a series of catwalks. Occasionally the path splits in two, but if a player chooses the wrong path, they’ll reach a dead end within seconds and finding the way back is easy. There’s never a fear of getting lost. In the one instance when players are forced to explore the Dark World, the area is very small. It’s just a singe house with two floors, a basement, and an attic. Once any room is deemed safe, that haven is never vary far away, so the fear of exploration is always tempered by the knowledge that safety is nearby.

Silent Hill: Homecoming is about Alex Shepherd, a war veteran who has returned home to Shepherd’s Glen only to find his town in chaos. Fog covers everything, people have been disappearing, and monsters roam the streets. When Alex learns that his little brother is missing, he decides to find him and get out of town.

The story unfolds as more of a mystery and less of a psychological horror story. Much of the plot focuses on answering the question, “What is happening in Shepard’s Glen and why?” With each new clue, Alex pieces together the history of his town, the secrets of its religious cult, and its inevitable relation to Silent Hill, but during this journey, there is very little self-reflection on his part.

Traditionally, the Dark World and its monsters were used as reflections of the protagonist’s own fears and desires, but not so in Silent Hill: Homecoming. Every time Alex is transported to the Dark World he usually talks with one of the founders of the town, and through their monologues, players come to understand that this hell that they have been brought to and these monsters that they fight are reflections of the founders’ dark pasts. In one scene, one of the founders constantly compares his late daughter to a doll, so it’s no surprise that the boss that Alex fights soon after is a twisted vision of a porcelain doll. This is a creative way of developing the antagonists, but it’s done at the expense of developing the protagonist.  As a result, the story loses that personal intimacy that the series is known for. While Alex does face some personal issues throughout the game (the history of his strained relationship with his parents emerges in certain scenes), this is treated as a subplot within the larger mystery.

It’s a shame Alex’s own psychological problems are not fully explored because he has a wealth of them. We learn late in the game that Alex was directly responsible for the accidental death of his brother. We learn that he’s not actually a war veteran. He was out of town because he was in a mental institution, insane with guilt about the death. But the game doesn’t take any time at all to explore his reaction to such a horrible revelation. After learning this, Alex quickly finds an elevator and rides it into the headquarters of the town’s cult. The fact that he killed his little brother has no emotional impact on him, and it seems the only point for the big plot twist was to shock the player.

Silent Hill: Homecoming doesn’t depict The Order, as the cult is called, as a collection of religious zealots but rather as a collection of psychopaths. The distinction may seem subtle, but the differences become blatant in the final area of the game, the Order’s headquarters. There all of the built-up mystery devolves into a wannabe Hostel game. Whatever psychological horror the game was going for is lost when characters begin to get tortured for no apparent reason. For a series known for its disturbing stories, unsettling atmosphere, and focus on the psychosomatic effects of fear, such unabashed gore is a major step back. Not only does this attempt at shock dilute the more subtle elements of horror in the game, but it gives a human face to our enemies. They are people, and people can be killed. There is nothing supernatural about the Order members, and compared to what players face throughout the rest of the game, a human opponent is preferable.

Both in its level and creature designs, the game perfectly captures the nightmarish visuals the series is known for, but it doesn’t have the frightening story to backup those visuals. With its updated graphics, it looks scarier than any other game in the series, but there’s nothing beneath that guise. It’s all just for show.

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Wednesday, Jun 10, 2009
The emphasis of many games is on presenting the player with an object that is desirable or loathsome and then sets that player on a path to capture or possess it.

In James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man, the titular young artist, Stephen Daedalus, lectures his friend Lynch at length about the nature of the beautiful in art.  He argues that when art is apprehended properly that its audience is arrested by a static emotion.  By contrast, he refers to “kinetic emotions,” which he deems to be emotions that excite in their viewers desire or loathing.  He claims that art that generates such visceral responses are either “pornographical or didactic” in nature.

Lynch responds to this clinical discussion of proper and improper art with a practical example of his own confusion about how what is considered high art (statuary in a museum) might evoke a very kinetic excitement in its audience:

You say that art must not excite desire . . . I told you that one day I wrote my name in pencil on the backside of the Venus of Praxiteles in the Museum.  Was that not desire?

While Lynch’s interest in posing this problem may be to complicate Stephen’s neat way of dividing “high” art from other “less serious” forms of art, Lynch’s response to Stephen’s explanation also provokes interesting questions about what draws an audience to art to begin with or what motivates the audience to want to interact with a piece of art.  Assumedly, art (be it improper or not) with a pornographic quality (containing those things that, according to Stephen, excite desire and loathing in an audience) is constructed with the very notion that the sort of desirable or loathsome imagery that makes up a piece of art are the very things that the audience wants to consume. In that sense the emphasis that video games place on generating salacious and repellent imagery is extremely explicable especially given the inherently kinetic nature of this interactive art form.  If art is intended to “move” us, video games are most assuredly an art based on more than emotional kinetics.  Images are meant to make us act on our emotions. It is interesting then that the emphasis of many games is on presenting the player with an object that is desirable or loathsome and then sets that player on a path to capture or possess it.  Visual “bait” is the lure of many games, and like the assumptions of Lynch, it would seem that many game designers assume that a lot of players want to write at least their virtual names on the backsides of a Venus or two.
Visual stimulation and its possession is the central theme of the Dead or Alive beach series for example.  The player is charged with taking on the role of one of several fit young women over the course of an island vacation.  During the vacation, the character competes in sports like volleyball and jet ski racing and is rewarded with money for her efforts.  Money can be spent in the sports shop on the island, which in addition to some volleyballs and a few accessories, dominantly sells— you guessed it—slinky swimsuits. Since the player is occupying the flesh of a curvaceous woman and taking part in these activities with and against an outrageously physically well-developed group of female competitors, obviously the interest of the game is less about the sports that one is competing in and the money accrued by doing so than it is in a couple of other things.  The real reward is visual in nature; it is in outfitting all of the DOA girls in the skimpiest suits possible.  A complex relationship and gifting simulation is embedded in this “sports” game that promotes the primary motivator for gameplay, the visual gratification of possessing all or as many of the suits as possible and outfitting the various shapes and sizes of women available in the game in those suits. The notion of collection in gaming is a classic one.  Players of the original Super Mario Bros. realize the importance of collecting coins throughout the worlds of the Mushroom Kingdom for instance.  For every hundred coins one collects, Mario gains another life.  Modern games thrive on this old school obsession that players have with collecting and often recognize the need for providing a reward to the player for collecting some odd little trinket or other.  In Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, tagging 100 buildings in Los Santos boosts the player’s respect stat, collecting 100 oysters in San Fierro gains the player more sex appeal, and collecting 100 horseshoes causes an increase in a player’s luck at gambling.
While many games have offered gameplay rewards for completing collections, this kind of practical reward strikes me as different in nature to the aesthetic rewards of DOA.  The swimsuits and their possession are not merely a side quest in the game; they are the game.  They have no practical value, altering not how the game is played (Lisa and Tina don’t get better at volleyball by wearing a thong) but how the game is viewed.  The reward is purely in found in exciting desire, and the design uses that potential excitement as motivation for play.  This sounds suspiciously like Daedalus’ description of a “pornographical” art form.
Witness also a game like The Witcher, which takes such collection of female flesh to a very literal kind of realization.  While The Witcher is dominantly a traditional kind of action RPG in which the player takes on the role of a monster hunter who fights to gain experience to build skills and other stats, a good number of side quests are devoted to romancing fair maidens (well, most of them probably are not categorically speaking maidens, but you get the point).  While some of these romances advance the plot of the game and some of this plot advancement might ultimately lead to additional gameplay benefits, many have a single impractical reward, a card bearing the likeness of the woman that you have managed to bed.  The card becomes an emblem of a conquest and the medium that the image is captured in is an appropriate one to game players familiar with the notion of collectible cards and collectible card games.  Unlike the full value of a card in a collectible card game, though, the object of collecting them is largely aesthetic and only narrowly related to gameplay.  The card and acquiring her/it is the reason to play these side quests, and again, they have no practical value in the game itself as an object.  The captured image is the goal (y’know, you gotta catch ‘em all).
These two examples, though, may seem relatively obvious in exemplifying a pornographic aesthetic to motivate players given that both largely emphasize the desirability of a visual representation of achievement as a motivator for achieving goals in a game.  Truth be told, other forms of visual stimulation are very frequently a driving factor in motivating players to achieve goals in games that are less erotic in nature.  The flashy nature of fmvs in games attest to this notion.  Anyone that has played 40-50 hours of a Final Fantasy game is likely to attest to the fact that the promise of a really beautifully rendered cut scene coming up is often what drives the player to persist in such games.  While hardcore RPG aficionados were playing Final Fantasy II and III on Super Nintendo, it wasn’t until the more visually arresting images of Final Fantasy VII arrived that Final Fantasy became a hit stateside.  Viewing something “cool” may be as equally desirable as viewing something carnal and equally visceral. Interestingly, then, such provocation of desire through visual stimulation is often less overtly something resembling traditional porn than the earlier examples provided.  Indeed, video game “porn” can even verge on the downright cute.  One of the primary lures of the Viva Piñata gardening simulations is the visual reward offered to the player when he or she successfully mates two animals.  Ironically, the visual (and auditory) pleasure of witnessing the “romance dance” of a species of Piñata is at once seemingly not at all pornographic (they are cute animals dancing in funny ways to great music with no biological realities intruding) but then again obviously so (they are mating for pity’s sake).
It might be argued that Viva Piñata‘s romance dances (or at least the act of animal husbandry) do serve some purpose besides exciting their players with their visual charms.  Certainly, breeding animals in the game serves a function within what is fundamentally an ecological and economic simulation.  However, given the much more open ended quality of those games as sandbox simulations, it is arguable that the player is given much more to motivate him- or herself as they play through the game.  Having created a successful garden is nice but getting the opportunity to watch the fox-like Preztail piñatas perform a highly exaggerated foxtrot is, perhaps, the most aesthetically pleasing part of the game. Refreshingly, too, unlike the earlier mentioned games, the visual rewards of Viva Piñata are broader in appeal than the seemingly masculinely-oriented visual stimulation provided by the collectible “objects” of DOA and The Witcher.  As noted above, though, Daedalus argues that improper arts like the pornographic can excite both desire and loathing.  Watching women frolic in bikinis and piñatas get it on may help explain the visual stimulation that is excited by desire in games, but it fails to consider those images that might equally motivate play through the excitation of loathing.  Next week, I will take a look at some examples of what would seem to be an oxymoron, visual pleasures derived not from the desirable but from the loathsome.

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