On BioShock Infinite and Roger Ebert (and Art)

A man once said something contentious. That man is dead. Is there meaning in it?

Roger Ebert after losing his jaw but not his spirit.

This week, famed movie critic, Roger Ebert died. Subsequently, some people took time out of their days to reiterate their vitriol towards the man. The man once claimed that video games are not art and could never become art, so some awful people saw fit to trounce upon his death as if his cancer was related. I feel the hate was unnecessary for reasons beyond the idea of taking delight in a man's death.

Reveling in someone's death or saying that person deserved it is vile. When I learned of Roger Ebert's comments on video games, I said, "He can go fuck himself," which is a common feeling one can have when someone criticizes something he finds important but is not available for debate. But I did not wish him cancer or to lose his lower jaw. Can you imagine how horrific it would be to have any of that happen, to know you were bound to die or be disfigured? If you think that is tantamount to hearing that a well-known movie critic thinks video games aren't art, well, you should reevaluate your life up to this point. (You may leave.)

Ebert had no direct effect on my life. When I was younger, and Siskel was alive, I would occasionally try to catch their show on FOX whenever the station randomly decided to air it. It was a fun show and a justification for staying up late like I did then. I didn't await their reviews, and I never consulted critics before going to watch a movie. Fast forward to present day, and my only interaction with him in the last few years was clicking on links to a few of his essays, which were all intelligent and well-written. He was a smart, cultured man, and I had every reason to believe he was good-natured, as well. Although I'm not bummed about his death, I'm not elated about it either. Everyone deserves better.

Much to my surprise, his death started to draw links to the recent AAA blockbuster, BioShock Infinite, in that some believe it is the realization of video games as art. It even brought the notorious Cliffy B to the fold:

Something eerie about the timing of the loss of Roger Ebert and the release of a true game as art in Bioshock Infinite.
— Cliff Bleszinski (@therealcliffyb) April 4, 2013

While, compared to some others, I found absolutely nothing offensive about this tweet, I was surprised that people thought this was the game that was going to win over someone who derided video games so long ago. To this I say, "Who are you kidding?" Although Ebert was a noted consumer of culture, video games were not among them. He certainly was not going to spend his last days valuing his life sinking hours into a violent video game or any video game for that matter as if all of a sudden, the industry finally created the holy grail. I'm happy to contend that there were plenty of good and better examples before it, all easily dismissed by such a critic.

I recently finished BioShock Infinite, and like many others, I was blown away by the ending. It made me feel a lot of emotions all at once, and my body's reaction was to send a few tears to my eyes. It was not the same feeling as the special moment in To the Moon, but it was an intense moment. BioShock Infinite features some really impressive writing and direction, but it also features a significant amount of gameplay that makes consuming these triumphs intimidating to a lot of people, including gamers.

I can see why some don't see the art I see in this image.

The fact is that first-person shooters can be tough to get into and tough to play from there. You may not agree; you may be the biggest FPS fan in history. Despite the number of FPS or FPS-like games I've reviewed here, I am not a fan of them in particular. For me, it's about wanting to check out a great story regardless of gameplay mechanics or wanting to check out why everyone loves a game even if it doesn't seem to be my style. The original BioShock was the first FPS that sparked an intense desire within me to overcome my reservations about the genre in order to experience what the game offered, and to this day, I do not regret wanting to play that game as badly as I did.

For other people, it's just not worth it. I suck at some types of games, and I most notably suck at first-person shooters if there is no stealth involved. Well, I suck at shooters in general – don't let me mislead you. But just because I'm willing to trudge through the threat of sucking doesn't mean everyone is. And there are also a lot of people who don't play video games because they (think they) suck at them, regardless of genre. Alongside those people are some who don't believe it's worth the time when they enjoy so many other cultural offerings available; they don't even evaluate their skills at video games because video games are a non-entity to them.

The skills required to progress through a game represent a barrier of entry for that particular art form. When it comes to the video-games-as-art discussion, I am not sure many people consider breaking down the video games into what they think is the art versus what they consider to be the game. The fact is that the game might be worthless or threatening to those who don't play. This, in turn, makes the art easy to be dismissed, and I don't blame them. It doesn't apply to every game, of course. Some games feature gameplay that is very much tied to its artistic expression, such as Journey or The Unfinished Swan, where divorcing the two is hard to comprehend.

Journey, where everything is beautiful, but is it art?

Before I write further on that subject, I do want to explain that I consider many video games to be art. I think art is based on emotional response. "Do I emotionally respond to what I am experiencing?" If the answer to that question is "yes," then I am willing to entertain its consideration as art. Maybe that is too broad, but I am not the judge, and there isn't any real jury. I just find it hard to believe that people can play a game, one with either a great story or a great experience, and feel joy, fear, heartbreak, or otherwise and not consider it art. Like Ebert, though, I'd agree that some games contain art but may not be pieces of art in their entirety. I think that's a fair assessment and one that is fair to debate.

On the other hand, I don't think that people who deride video games as something other than art consider the barrier of entry involved in other forms of art. Movies, music, and books are easier to consume, yes – there is nothing other than technical malfunction that can really prevent you from navigating them from beginning to end – but some of the most appreciated or most debated of these actually do require more than watching, listening, or reading to fully appreciate beyond a superficial level. I've had the experience where I've enjoyed a movie but spoke to a person who started talking about themes or metaphors that I completely missed. The end result is usually a modicum of disappointment from the other. We clearly did not enjoy the same art. It's possible I did not see art where others did.

A good recent example from pop culture would be Psy's dance hit, "Gangnam Style." People went nuts for the song. (I was not among them, but I think the song is fun and well-produced.) DJs everywhere started playing it at clubs and parties, and it's reached a saturation point where you will involuntarily hear it several times a week. It's even been incorporated into Dance Central 3, so those gamers can dance to it and score points doing so. But how many people listening to and enjoying the song are aware of its existence as political and social satire? From conversations I've had with people, the answer is not many. The clear reason why is that you'd need to speak Korean, have an understanding of South Korean culture and economy, and know that Psy has a history of being politically vociferous.

In The Path, you have to go to Grandmother's house down the road, but the forest is calling to you, too.

Although "Gangnam Style" is appreciable as musical art, it has a barrier of entry to be understood as art with commentary and crticism. Compared to a video game, the barrier of entry is less apparent, almost hidden. I'd compare it to Tale of Tales' The Path, where it is easy to complete the game six times in under thirty minutes by just walking in a straight line from start to end, but the core of the game actually requires the player to step off the titular path before trying to return to it. In other words, it's impossible to appreciate what the game has to offer or what the developers wanted to express without doing the extra work required to do so. Admittedly, unlike a song, The Path is not very enjoyable if you take the easy route, but one can consume and opine about it that way, and the artist is left to feel like that person is doing it wrong.

It is these barriers of entry that actually separate art appreciators, where the "snobs" come from, so to speak, though it's not fair to pass judgement on those who devote their time to understanding an artistic medium fully. With respect to video games, the barriers prevent gamers from playing what I would consider pieces of art, and other barriers, such as historical knowledge, prevent gamers from understanding what the art is trying to tell them beyond what they are experiencing. I reluctantly bring up the fact that a handful of people who played BioShock Infinite thought Wounded Knee references were bro shoutouts to Skyrim's "arrow to the knee" meme instead of a serious, horrific moment in American history. (By the way, it's OK to pause a game to Google a reference if it'll help you appreciate it more.) The truth is that many people will finish BioShock Infinite without being able to wrap their heads around the ending, or they might love the first-person shooter gameplay and think the story is trash altogether. Who am I to judge them? Nobody, even though I lament it.

This brings me back to Roger Ebert and his opinions. That's all they were. To their credit, he wrote them thoughtfully and carefully, which is more than I can say for many who wished him death, threatened him in life, or resorted to homophobic slurs to drive their indignation home. Regardless, Ebert was just a man albeit a famous one. He did not and does not have the ability to determine what is art for you or what you should think is art. If you feel passionately that he is wrong, then video games are art. It's really as simple as that, and many people will disagree with me. That is also OK.

Instead of hating the man, we should thank him for bring us closer than ever before to the medium we love – video games.

To the Moon Review

This game made me cry.

There's a lighthouse involved...somehow.

To the Moon, the first commercial release by Freebird Games, is unique in the fact that it delivers its story through a game premise but ultimately lacks a lot of gameplay to speak of. In its defense, that's not a bad thing and makes what would otherwise be a 4-5 hour movie more interactive and compelling. The story takes place in what seems to be the not-too-distant future. The player controls two doctors, Dr. Neil Watts and Dr. Eva Rosalene, who have machinery capable of replacing someone's memories. Due to the conflict this can cause the patient in the real world, their business is focused on providing this service to people on their death beds. The result allows a person to die believing he or she has fulfilled his or her lifelong wish. The doctors make this task, which requires following memory's path back to childhood and offering strong suggestions to make the dream come true, seem rather rote in its execution, but their newest patient, Johnny, offers them an emotional challenge.

As the title would suggest, Johnny's dying wish is to go to the moon. He lays on his deathbed surrounded by his doctor, his caretaker, and her two children in a house on a cliff by a lighthouse. Conversations are completely composed of text, and there are no vocals except for a single song which plays in the background later on (similar to Final Fantasy VIII and Final Fantasy IX). After some light comedic elements, including a fake RPG battle scenario, the doctors get to work hooking their patient and themselves to the machine that makes dreams come true. What they find out before diving in, though, is that neither Johnny nor the people surrounding him know why he wanted to go to the moon in the first place, and this proves to be the crux of the narrative. Clearly, if you don't know why you want to do something as a mature adult, it'll be hard to convince yourself as a child to go for it.

Given its brevity, I won't delve much further into the story itself because much of the mystery starts shortly after the machine is powered on. The gameplay is relatively simple for the majority of it, though. For every memory Eva and Neil enter, they must find a gateway object which lets them travel further back in time towards childhood, but in order to do that, they must find five memories to break its barrier. This involves either picking up certain objects, entering particular places, or experiencing special events. After opening the gateway object, readying it for use involves solving a small puzzle. Based on conversations between the doctors, it is usually rather simple to find gateways back to childhood very easily, but Johnny presents a challenge, and each jump is rather short, meaning the player will be repeating this process a significant number of times before reaching the conclusion. There are eventually small variations thrown in for flavor, but none of them are remarkable aside from a clunky but funny reference to Plants vs. Zombies (the game's credits feature composer and sound designer, Laura Shigihara).

You can't tell how ugly the children are because this is 16-bit. Trust me.

Regardless, in its 16-bit presentation and simplicity, the story of To the Moon is the star of the show, and it managed to deliver probably the most emotional and unique moment I've ever experienced in a game. As the subheader would suggest, I cried. I really did. And I really had doubts that I would. For one, I have never been too moved by text conversations, and sometimes this story can be silly. Although it never overstays its welcome, the ways the different scenes seem to connect come off initially as obvious and pedestrian though cute. Eventually, there is a neat twist, which puts some of the stranger events into perspective. However, it all builds up to a moment about four hours in that left me in tears. That scene (actually, that line) coupled with the following events wrapped this up as one of the most wonderful stories I've had the privilege of experiencing.

Even though there is not much game to speak of regarding To the Moon, I think everyone who believes in making emotional connections in video games must play this. At the very least, it's not too challenging to get through, and the whole experience is short enough to cover in a few play sessions. Do yourself a favor, and go for it.

This game is currently on sale on Steam and GOG for $4.99.

Papo & Yo Review

A treatise on the concept of fun.

I have played sentimental games, and I have played games with true genius behind them, but rarely have I witnessed the two intertwined successfully. Often, games with raw emotional experiences sacrifice gameplay for storytelling, and some games with clever mechanics have lackluster stories. Depending on how you judge common gameplay devices, you might consider Papo & Yo, a new PSN exclusive from Minority Media, to be the perfect blend.

Papo & Yo acts as an allegory about a boy and his alcohol abusing father. Creative director, Vander Cabellero, is not simply content with letting the metaphor run by itself, so the game will wear its origin on its sleeve multiple times until it becomes readily apparent during the final few acts. Unlike Braid, this creator's vision will not remain hidden or argued about over internet forums. Caballero sought to share his own experience growing up with an alcoholic father through Papo & Yo, but while the purpose is clear, he is not pandering towards a specific population. This is a game one can easily enjoy, metaphor be damned, but the hope is the player will come away with something new to think about by the end. Without being didactic, Papo & Yo's story leaves the player to make his or her own conclusions about how to feel towards the characters.

The father in this game is represented by Monster, a large aptly-named creature that follows the main protagonist, Quico, a preteen boy, through a fantastical version of the favelas of Brazil. These shanty towns, built by arbitrarily stacking box-like houses on top of and around each other, serve as the perfect backdrop to this well-imagined tale. In contrast to an action game's typical tour through South America, often involving gangs and drugs, the favela is a colorful and benevolent landscape rife with puzzles to solve. The game largely appears to be imagined, and many of the puzzles Quico encounters take this real-life environment and show the player how a child might think it came to be. The mechanics behind solving them typically involve chalk drawings of levers, gears, and keys that Quico must use to literally move the homes of the favela around in order to proceed. Quicio, himself, acts as a serviceable platform navigator, being able run at a useful speed, withstand long jumps to the ground, and eventually cross larger gaps with the aid of his toy robot, Lula. Monster may be the primary antagonist, but like any human being, he isn't pure evil, and the game never paints him as such. The majority of the time, Quico can seek his aid with stepping on large switches or by using his tummy as a trampoline while he falls asleep against some propped-up boards. It is obvious that Quico and Monster are or should be friends, but Monster's weakness for frogs steps in the way of building that friendship to a fruitful level. When consumed, these frogs send Monster in a fiery rage, and the only target is the boy, who must run away and find a way to calm him in order to proceed. However, this is not a giant escort mission, and unlike Ico, neither character is helpless; theirs is a sad tale of codependence, but the wedge between them grows ever stronger.

A larger than life puzzle being solved with cardboard boxes.

The game is very linear and playable in 4-5 hours, but these qualities work to its credit. Every part of the environment the player can access is a room where a puzzle or land traversal will occur, and there are no notable forks in your path. There is one way to proceed, and if you enter an area initially of no use, you'll be back there in five minutes once you do some work elsewhere. Normally, when you play a game enough, these characteristics can become negatives, but in Papo & Yo, I would argue that they contribute to the genius I mentioned previously. Quico is not wandering the favela with Monster by coincidence. Unlike Mario's sisyphean trials and tribulations, which put him in an arguably confusing and unexplained land with each iteration, there is nothing random about this world. It is what Quico knows, and though it is not immediately apparent when starting a new game, he makes his way to each new section with purpose. Sidequests would only serve as distractions from the primary focus, and the game doesn't grant any trophy-rewarding collectibles until the second playthrough. Many of the questions the player may have during the beginning will be answered during play save for those most philosophical. The game is short because it has to be, and in a world where players increasingly demand bang for their buck, they need to accept the esoteric immediacy of the story's larger concept as the treasured bang.

The favela, both real and impossible.

All the puzzles Quico solves are organically incorporated into the favela environment. While the keys and levers that move the puzzle pieces may be inorganic, and the player doesn't see what put them there, their necessity becomes understandable. The world isn't telling Quico what he needs to advance so much as Quico imagined it himself. They start small, but eventually you will enter large areas with large machinations to use. These room-filling puzzles made up my favorite moments in the game, involving stacking homes to build a bridge or using the land as a large trap for a raging Monster. It is not long before the recognizable objects give way to abstractions protruding from the landscape, and the journey reveals larger instabilities in the environment, which beautifully reinforce both the reality and the fantasy behind the main character's trials.

Despite taking place within the imagination of a young boy, Quico is limited. He cannot fly, and, Lula notwithstanding, he cannot perform any grand feats. It begs the question of why a child would imagine himself in a world with limits, but self-sabotage is not a new concept to a victim of abuse. It is worth considering here. That said, pondering why Quico can't pick up a simple flower pot will only reveal design flaws. If it's not related to the quest at hand, Quico will not be interacting with it, and even in AAA games, frivolous accessible objects are becoming harder to explain. Additionally, although it only becomes obvious in a few scenes, characters' mouths don't move when they speak. Despite the fact that many gamers built emotional bonds with characters who often lacked fully-developed mouths entirely, when the camera zooms in on the face of a speaking person, it is rather unsettling to look at a frozen face. Unfortunately, there are real technical flaws to be witnessed, as well, the most common of which is collision detection. Monster's hulking frame and other objects in the environment intersect each other in unnatural ways that do not fit the fantasy. Though largely benign, these issues become offensive when Monster becomes frozen and unresponsive because of them, thus prohibiting the player's ability to proceed through the game. I finished the game twice, and this happened three times, only during my first playthrough. Thankfully, the third instance happened while Monster was already where I needed him, and activating the next puzzle mechanism set him straight again. Luckily, Papo & Yo's short chapters lead to relatively frequent checkpoints, and quitting and reloading takes under thirty seconds. It is worth noting that I played only after the Day 1 patch was released, which resolved some often cited clipping errors; I am happy not to somber this review with any further bugs.

Quico using Monster's belly to get to higher places.

Faults aside, the presentation is commendable. The bright colors of the homes jut out of cobblestone roads and lush greenery. Many objects and textures are repeated, but each chapter rearranges, manipulates, and abstracts them in imaginative ways, and the confined spaces of the residential areas are often interrupted by huge environments containing water bodies and pitfalls. Visuals in Papo & Yo are both done before and completely original, creating a juxtaposition that keeps the player interested and motivated. Almost every chapter also features gorgeous graffiti, drawn with stark lines and bold colors. Some seem random, but advancing past them frequently reveals the relation to a story or gameplay element. There is no HUD, and on-screen cues are usually reasonably sized and clear, such as a tree with a word bubble containing a square to indicate how to interact with it. Dialogue is presented in black word bubbles with white type, but the spoken language is indiscernible and made up, increasing the global accessibility. Filling the aural void further is refreshing music with a heavy South American flair. Composed by La Hacienda, the songs you hear build drama behind the puzzle solving, and it all culminates in a beautiful track before the credits, featuring an angelic choir of children. The studio also recorded all the voice work and sound effects, which are all executed gracefully.

I am burdened with the fact that I cannot further discuss the concepts and metaphors that make this game such a work of art without revealing too much. I have already made too many conclusions here, but there are so many more to make. Suffice it to say that this game is very fun, with each drawn device building the fantasy and activating previously unseen ways to manipulate the environment, but fun comes at a price. Vander Cabellero and his Minority Media team make the player think about why we do fun things, what we ultimately stand to gain from having fun, and why fun isn't permanent. This is not a hero story. The plot twist is both completely unexpected and right in front of your nose. Before the game reveals it to you, it forces the player to sit through a truly heartbreaking moment of pause. This is a story about a very real boy and a very real situation. Via the element of play, you are drawn into his reality without your permission. Play it. Play it again. The final genius stroke may be that replaying the game makes sense within the context of the story.

Well played, Vander.

All images taken from GameInformer.com.