Rules of Adaptation: A Short Manifesto for Retelling Stories Through Games

For many decades the film industry has been relying on non-original content for their huge multi-million dollar blockbuster hits. These films are typically remakes, sequels or adaptations, typically of novels or plays. There are obvious reasons for doing this: rather than gambling on the success of an original idea, these films can tap into the established fanbases provided by the original. With the budgets of films inflating year upon year it is no surprise that the producers seek this kind of safety net.

Just like cinema-goers, gamers are witnessing their industry shift away from original storylines and more towards derivative content. Within recent years we have seen the likes of Final Fantasy 15, Far Cry 5 and remakes of Crash Bandicoot and Dark Souls. Two of the most acclaimed games of 2017 were Super Mario Odyssey and Legend of Zelda: Breath of The Wild, both games belonging to beloved series with a grand total of 44 mainline games between them: it is safe to say that there is no shortage of sequels. At first glance it may seem like there is little distinction between the current strategies of the game and film industries. However, on closer inspection there is one noticeable absence: the games market is seeing comparatively fewer adaptations.

Now, this statement might seem absurd when titles like Star Wars: Battlefront II and Middle Earth: Shadow of War were among the highest-selling games of 2017 but I think there is a distinction to be made between games like these and 'true' adaptations-- these games aren't so much adapting the work, but rather inhabiting its worlds and using them as scenery for their own brand new experiences, isolated from the events of the source material. How many Star Wars games focus on the plot of the films? How many Middle Earth games focus on the stories told within Tolkein's books? While there's much to talk about with these kinds of games, what I'm more interested in is games that bring the source material's world to life and use it as a means to explore the source material's narrative and themes. So why are there so few?

With such a tumultuous history (see E.T.), it comes as no surprise that game publishers are more than a little skeptical to bank on adaptations outside of some all-encompassing franchises-- the stigma of poorly designed, hastily-constructed 'film tie-ins' lingers, long after their proliferation.

While this image problem is worth exploring, I want to focus on why designing for adaptations is technically challenging but has the potential to be one of the most rewarding ventures available for a game developer. First, I will discuss the main concerns that one could encounter when adapting a linear narrative to an interactive structure.

To reiterate, I would like to state that I'm only concerned with narrative-driven games that greatly leverage player choice. In such systems I think that there are two overlapping problems that a developer could encounter when adapting source material:

The Story is too Rigid 

Traditional narratives, like those found in literature and films, often derive their appeal from the specific events that occur within them: the conflicts, the twists and turns, the reveals. Remove these events and the work loses its substance and appeal. 

If that's the case, how do you reconcile the player operating in a manner which steers them away from these events? If the player is free to avoid these crucial events, won't we also lose the substance and appeal of the narrative?

To give an absurd example, how could we progress the plot of Romeo and Juliet if the player (as Romeo) does not fall in love with Juliet? The story would be locked in a standstill, the inciting incident remaining un-incited. 

If we stripped the player of their freedom we could prevent them from missing any significant events but we would then risk making a game without any meaningful decisions.

The Player is not the Hero 

Intriguing characters are also a strong source of appeal for creative works. Broadly speaking, it is the personality of these characters that we come to enjoy. However, if the player takes control of these characters can the same connection still be made?

The relationship between the player and the character is irrevocably altered: the player becomes the agent instead of an observer. As such, much of the joy from observing the character might not translate. Not only that, the actions made by the player will not necessarily be faithful to the character's nature-- the player could end up mutating the character into someone entirely different. 

While gameplay can be used to 'nudge' players into making in-character decisions, we would need to take care to ensure that these suggestions aren't forceful or we would risk robbing players of their volition. Ideally this process should be subliminal, without limiting player freedom in any tangible measure.

If we look at these two concerns we can see that there is an underlying issue that connects them:
player choice v. faithfulness to source. With each problem we are given a situation where reducing the freedoms of the player would lessen the extent of the issue but in doing so we would be limiting the potential for engagement and interaction.

While all game adaptations will suffer from this dilemma in some form, the severity of the problem will vary. What is key is finding source material which has the capacity for a broad range of choices that can alter the source's story elements without being detrimental to its 'essence'. To put this in other words:

How easy is it to conceive of an outcome that diverges from the source while also maintaining its central ideas?

Therefore, the potential a given work has for a game adaptation will depend on how well you can construct branching paths that diverge from the source that still convincingly fit within its logic and values. The feasibility of this is dependent on the level of depth provided by the material, not just in terms of breadth of cast and locations but also in the strength and prominence of its core concepts.

If we were to look at a series like A Song of Ice and Fire, where a great amount of time is spent pouring detail into the characters, their relationships, and the immense world that they inhabit, we can see that it provides a solid foundation for expanding and reinterpreting its storyline. In a game adaptation of this work, it wouldn't be difficult to theorise alternative timelines if certain events were altered or avoided altogether. Sure, each fan would arrive at a different conclusion but so long as their imaginings abide by the same logic of the source it would be disingenuous to view it as unreasonable. If these potential scenarios still reflected the grim, cut-throat fantasy that the series is known for there would be no doubt within the player's mind that this new plotline was anything other than an authentic A Song of Ice and Fire story.

While an outcome of good writing is consistency within the characters and world, the level of consistency required to allow for new ideas, events, and characters to be easily extrapolated is inconsequential for the consumption of the work and as such it is typically incidental in its inception. Because of this, many adaptations must instead rely on the strengths of the concepts within the source-- rather than examining it on a superficial level, only analysing what is presented overtly, the developer should instead examine the work on a more abstract and conceptual level: the themes, the motifs, the central message. However this isn't to say that these surface-level features can be entirely ignored-- without them the adaptation may be unrecognisable to the average player.

While all mediums need to worry about the extrapolation of detail (e.g. how do you design a set in a film based on its description in a book?), games are unique in that they are the only medium which neccessitates the derivation of entirely new scenarios.

Now you might ask why a game should offer the player the freedom of choice when it is so detrimental to the structure of the source's narrative. However, if you are willing to ask such a question you must also be willing to concede that an adaptation bearing such a constraint would be inferior as it would be failing to take advantage of the only unique property inherent to video games: interactivity. By preventing the player from interacting with the narrative you are not creating a narrative-driven game-- you are creating a film interspersed with gameplay.

Some players may argue that they only want to proceed through the game along the same story beats as the original. However, what I am suggesting is not necessarily opposed to this stance. Instead, this proposed design would contain the original's plot threads as well as a multitude of others tailored by the developer. In this case, if the player was determined to achieve the same story outcome as the source material they would have to make identical decisions to the source's protagonist. In such a playthrough the player must submit entirely to the role of the protagonist as laid out within the source, embracing the same successes, hardships and defeats that they themselves experienced.

Instead of these plot beats simply being handed to the player as an on rails experience, this 'original route' is presented as just another path within the narrative that the player may find themselves on, consciously or not.

If they want to become the hero just like the lead, the player will have to become a hero themselves.

Not only that, by providing alternative outcomes the player is also given a chance to challenge the original's resolutions. Superficially, this could be as simple as making a different decision from the source's protagonist ("If I was in their situation, I would do X"). More significantly, the player could challenge the conceptual and idealogical conclusions the author arrives at ("while the work says I shouldn't do Y, I'm going to do it anyway because I believe it will provide the best outcome"). In this case the player has a chance to express any grievances they have with the work's ideas. More importantly, the author or developer can then respond to these objections via game feedback which the player can then explore. This back-and-forth can become a conversation between the player and the creator. No other medium has the power to do this.

With this structure, the player is given the opportunity to understand the ideas of the source much more intimately than they would otherwise. The creator can sway players towards their point of view by tailoring their ideas in a way that targets each player on an individual level. Different facets can be given greater attention. Topics can be revisted. The player is free to delve deeper into the mind of the creator.

Let's take a brief look at the game Arkham Asylum. Here, the player is given the role of Batman, tasked with quelling the chaos that has taken hold within the titular asylum. Following the tradition of the Batman comic series, the Batman in Arkham Asylum is limited to non-lethal actions. Refraining to kill is at the core of his identity: if he became a killer then he would not be any better than the villains he pursues. This ideal lies at the foundation of his rivalry with the Joker-- the Joker's ultimate goal being to 'break' Batman, pushing him over the edge and turning him into a murderer, thus stripping him of his prestige and heroic title. It is one of the many reasons why their rivalry is a highlight of comic medium-- the two are locked in an endless struggle where neither can kill the other without forsaking their own ideology: if Batman kills the Joker he loses his status as a righteous hero. If the Joker kills Batman, he will die a martyr, his status as hero solidified.

When creating a Batman game, we would also want the player to grapple with this struggle. However this is one aspect of the narrative that Arkham Asylum fails to achieve. Within the game the player is forced into a position where they must be non-lethal, by virtue of there being no mechanism for lethality. The player is forced to accept non-lethality as a rule of the world, rather than as a self-imposed ideology that must be fought or perhaps even challenged. The player has no choice but to obey this mantra without the understanding or conviction behind it-- they are Batman in appearance but not in spirit.

Now what if we had an Arkham game where the player was given the option of firearms, knives and other lethal tools alongside Batman's usual repertoire? How would players react? Let's look at a hypothetical situation where this could come into play:

As the Batman, the player goes through each level apprehending villains. Being aware of the hero's beliefs they decide to ignore any opportunity to use firearms or other lethal devices, no matter how enticing or practical they may be. This routine continues level after level after level until the player encounters a villain so strong they can't bring them down no matter how hard they try. Again and again the player continues to fail, making next to no progress with each subsequent defeat. Bathed in failure and frustration, the player is tempted to use a weapon, lulled by the promise that it will provide the edge they need to succeed...

In this situation, what would the player do? Out of frustration would they give in to violence or would they try to persevere, hoping to preserve Batman's heroic reputation?

Regardless of the player's choice, they have been pitted in a scenario that encapsulates the frustration and discipline that Batman has to battle on a day to day basis: the player is given a look into the struggle of what it actually means to be Batman.

For such a premise to work effectively it is paramount that this non-lethality ideology is conveyed before the incident and the consequences of breaking it are displayed thereafter. In this case, the player needs to be aware beforehand of the importance of non-lethality from Batman's point of view. Without this, it might not be clear to the player (especially those unfamiliar with the character) why Batman doesn't kill or what is at stake if he does give in to those urges. If the game fails to illustrate the struggle of maintaining discipline and the consequences of giving in, the player might not make the connection and remain oblivious to the gravity of their action. It needs to be clear: by using the gun, they've let the Joker win.

While the technical requirements for a vast system of interconnected paths would distress any would-be developer, I think the greatest concern for this type of game structure lies with the source material's rights holder: would they really be comfortable with their creation being twisted and warped for the sake of player freedom? If we look at our Batman example, I think it is abundantly clear that DC Comics would be more than a little hesitant to greenlight a proposal that includes a feature where Batman can mercilessly gun down villains. Even if they understood the developer's reasoning as to why such a scene could benefit the exploration of its themes, they are still gambling on the success of its execution. If it fails, it could irrevocably warp the public perception of the material. A failure to convey the ideas faithfully wouldn't necessarily have to coincide with a failure from a mechanical point of view, either-- excellent gameplay with a message inconsistent with the source could prove just as detrimental. If our Batman game's shooting mechanics end up being too good and too fun and without adequate narrative repercussions, players using firearms might end up as the norm with many associating that playstyle with the character in their other appearances. Against the author's will, the central ideas embedded within the work are washed away. In such a situation it would be hard to see another author follow suit and willingly surrender their works to the additions necessary to make a game adaptation as effective as possible.

This leaves the medium in a difficult position, unable to maximise the potential of the source's material without frightening the author. A change to this structure would require some gradual changes within the industry over the course of several years. Above all, this style of ultra-divergent, choice-driven approach to narrative must first become commonplace within the industry. If the appeal of this kind of story continues to grow, it wouldn't be hard to imagine a few daring authors willing to pioneer this style of adaptation. If these early-adopters manage to find some form of success it wouldn't be too difficult to envision this approach establishing itself as a standard practice. This narrative style would also open the door to a great wealth of works that could be considered 'unadaptable' using traditional game narrative structures. While this reality may seem promising it is also important to remember that failures are also inevitable. It goes without saying, but a large enough catastrophe could send the whole industry reeling (see E.T.).

Regardless, I think a push towards this design is necessary for the growth of the medium as a whole, not just for the sake of adaptations. I think that the medium's hesitance to build upon previous literature has been detrimental to the overall quality of the storytelling within games. Due the relatively young age of the medium, many will argue that it is only natural that it fails to reach the same heights as its peers. However, I think that this is the exact reason why games need to borrow more from the older, more defined mediums-- rather than start from the beginning we should propel our own advancement by first standing on the shoulders of giants. Great potential awaits!

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In the future, I would like to explore how certain works could be adapted into video games using this criteria, taking time to show how this theory could be applied in various cases.

The first work I will tackle is Sui Ishida's manga, Tokyo Ghoul. While relatively unknown outside of the anime and manga community it does provide a vast array of possibilities for potential game adaptations without having to delve too deep into the source material. As such, it provides a great starting point for discussion. Following that, I would like to examine the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. See you then.

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Embrace the Imperfect, the Bittersweet (Perfection is a Myth)

This is a vague response to a piece by Chris Dahlen called "The power of weakness: You can't save everyone, nor should you" in which he explores situations in various games where seemingly innocuous circumstances can considerably affect gameplay and the way players approach the game in the future encounters. Dahlen's example regarding Persona 4 is particularly resonant with the idea of this essay. Well worth a read.

A qualm I've had with recent video games, particularly those with branching narratives, is that they always seem to push the plot (explicitly or implicitly) towards the 'perfect ending': the conclusion where nobody dies, everyone is fulfilled and the ancient evil is vanquished. Regardless of the themes or narrative genre, this type of ending is typically pushed as the true, 'canon' ending. While I'm against games attaching preferences to certain outcomes since it invalidates players' choice, I feel that elevating these flawless runs is particularly disingenuous.

In many stories, regardless of structure, the hero typically reaches some sort of low point in their journey-- the death of a master, the destruction of a homeland, a betrayal of an ally, the list goes on. Typically these events reframe the character from a different perspective. The story takes a pause, and the hero takes a moment to reevaluate who they are and why they set out on their journey. In games, the choices we make as a player can come with similarly severe consequences and like the low points of these heroes, they too can provide the player with a moment of introspection to reflect on their decisions. But where games can really shine is in their ability to reach out and comment directly on the player's own decisions and circumstances.

However, with the proliferation of these 'perfect' endings there is no way to communicate any interesting ideas with the player-- there is no opportunity to really dig deep into the player's own mind. Since players can also practice 'save-scumming'^[1] without penalty these perfect endings are easily achieved without any sort of development or growth from the player.

If the player can achieve the perfect surely that means that they have nothing new to learn from the game?

The idea of the perfect ending is not inherently bad, so long as it's not dissonant with the game's message. If a game does go on to include it, the requirement to obtain it should be far beyond the reach of most players. Only by understanding and learning the ideas the game has put across, taking these into account, and using them to develop and address their shortcomings should players be able to achieve narrative perfection within a game. While the effort required to achieve this will depend on the nature of the story being told, it seems as if there is a universal trend within the industry to make these flawless endings within everyone's grasp by the first or second playthrough. This leaves games with few opportunities to tackle any of the issues they attempt to explore through player choices. Typically these endings are reached by completing some additional side-quests or reaching a certain level of relationship with some characters, even if they don't appear to have any connection to the progression of the plot. These additions do not challenge the player. They are only there to guilt trip the player into wading through more of the game's content by dangling the bait of a 'true and complete' ending in front of their faces. The only thing that it really challenges is the player's patience.

This road to perfection is made all the easier due to the fact that players can simply revert saves with no punishment when a wrong decision is made or a mission fails. The current design philosophy allows players to save as much and as often as possible, meaning that all weight associated with each action is essentially eliminated-- the player can simply replay scenarios again and again until they discover the best or most fitting outcome for their character. This leaves little to no room for a game to actually tap into the psyche of the player and shape the story based upon their true self. If the player really is such a saint there are no flaws to examine or discuss.

However, there are a few instances of games taking advantage of these player habits. At the climax of the first act of Undertale, the player has to fight Toriel, a mother-like figure and teacher to the player. Up until this fight, the player is taught that it is possible to 'spare' the people you fight. Doing so usually involves uncovering a certain technique during the fight that subdues the adversary peacefully. Here, players need to figure out how to save Toriel in the midst of the fight while also avoiding her own attacks. As a result, many players in this situation may end up unintentionally killing her. After her death, the player is then berated by the antagonist for their killing of their own friend.

Naturally, at this point many players regret their actions and reset their game, redo the fight, and save Toriel, all in order to cleanse themselves of any wrongdoing they feel guilty about. Except here, unlike other games, the antagonist will mock you again after the fight. He still remembers what you've done. He informs you that while everyone else may have forgotten, he will still remember the sins you've committed. This is a powerful scene as it openly confronts the player and exposes their habit of erasing their mistakes as well as questioning their own morals. Is the player still a good person? Are they still a murderer? More interestingly however is the form of the punishment-- it isn't tangible like a score deduction or item loss. Instead, it only questions the player's own understanding of themselves. Those that truly concern themselves with playing perfect are given reason to question that image and even if that ideal is really attainable. While you may have saved her this time, he will remember you as a murderer and you can't change that. A small blemish- in an otherwise spotless image- that can't be washed away. Players may even behave differently as they realise that all their actions, in some sense, are final-- regardless of how the player attempts to circumvent their consequences. For a game that discusses morality, bounding consequences to their actions so tightly is incredibly compelling-- and necessary. It is no surprise that this event is for many one of the most memorable scenes from Undertale, or perhaps games in general as it is one of the few moments where a game so keenly cross-examines the player after exposing their actions.

It is important to note that not every game needs to introduce a meta-level response to tackle this habit of consequence avoidance. It is important however to prevent players from taking advantage of these systems if the game's narrative requires it. Many players will take advantage of flexible and unlimited saving if the game's mechanics permit it, even if it goes against the game's message. One method to eliminate this is for the game itself to take full control of when the game saves: whenever a major decision is made, the previous save is overwritten so that there is no way to redo your choice. Alternatively, the fallout from decisions could be delayed in such a way so that their actual results emerge much later into the playthrough. However, in such a system it might be difficult to deduce what decision led to the resulting outcome due to the blurring of the relationship between action and reaction. Depending on the nature of the game this could improve or damage the message as it leads to uncertainty within player as to whether or not they are actually culpable for the current scenario. Despite this, it shows that challenging decisions can still hold weight even if the game uses a mainstream saving system.

Take for example, Mass Effect 2. Towards the endgame the player's shipmates are kidnapped by an alien force. The player is then given a choice which seems fairly harmless-- save their crew immediately or take time to prepare before embarking on the rescue mission. Not until the player finally decides to give chase to the alien kidnappers do the repercussions of their decision come into play. Depending on how long the player waits before saving the crew the player will be treated to a cutscene during the rescue mission. If the player left immediately after the kidnapping they are treated to a scene where they successfully save them from death. However, if they decided to wait, they will be forced to watch their crew die as the protagonist fruitlessly tries to save them.

The reason I find this an excellent example is that the consequences are not spelt out directly for the player. While it is implied that abandoning them temporarily could be bad, as well as being immoral, it isn't explicitly stated-- it purely comes down to the gut feeling of the player. The weight of their action is not discovered until much later in their playthrough when they finally embark on the mission. During this time they may have developed other plotlines making it harder for the player to sacrifice all their effort made in the meantime in order to revert their save and erase their regrets. Not only that, but there is also risk in recklessly giving chase. Unless the player was organised enough to be fully-prepared for the venture, the result could end up jeopardising the lives of the player's companions that join the mission. Therefore the question asked when you make your choice can essentially be boiled down to: "Should I place my crew at risk or my companions?". By framing such an important question as "leave now or prepare first" the weight of the choice is disguised without being dishonest. This allows the player to answer truthfully based on their own volition and without influence, giving the game an opportunity to truly dissect the player.

Most important of all however, is that there is a lasting impact based on the outcome. For the rest of the game, if the crew dies they will be absent from the spacecraft.  For example, your ship's yeoman-- and potential love interest-- is dead and gone forever. You can't ever speak to her again. Conversely, if one of your companions dies, their room will now sit eerily empty, permanently. You may have saved the galaxy but you couldn't save those who helped you reach that goal. There is a distinct emptiness, a twinge, in the otherwise gleaming tale. The hero isn't perfect, they were human like the rest of us. And that's what makes the story so much more memorable.

Synthesising Gameplay and Narrative: A Look into Papers Please and Undertale

As voiced in my previous post, I feel like most games fail to take advantage of the medium of video games. However, I fail to mention any games that break away from this mainstream approach of linear storytelling. While such games are infrequently produced and therefore harder to come across, there are two noteworthy instances in recent years where such a game has managed to capture the attention of a wider audience, mostly due to their blurring of gameplay and story. These games are of course 'Papers Please' by Lucas Pope and 'Undertale' by Toby Fox.

These games, released two years apart, also share some other properties: both were made (for the most part) by a single person, on small budgets with even smaller fanbases. I predict that such an environment led to their riskier, experimental designs becoming much more appealing and viable.

In 'Papers Please' the player takes on the role of a border control officer in charge of checking travel documentation of denizens attempting to enter the country of Arstotzka, a fictional authoritarian Eastern-bloc country, during the height of the Cold War. The player's role is simple: allow all those with valid passports and documents through and reject all else. Each immigrant will deal with you differently: some will act civil, some will beg and bribe, others will pass by without a word. Their livelihoods are left entirely within your hands-- your decision may ultimately lead to their demise. While the player has the ability to disregard immigration procedure for whichever case they are swayed by, there are consequences which could leave the protagonist's own job and family in jeopardy.

'Undertale' on the other hand tells the heart-warming story of a child on his quest to return to his home after falling into an alternate world filled with "monsters". It is structured similarly to your standard turn-based RPG with linear wandering sections peppered with dialogue and turn-based battles. These combat segments are what make Undertale stand out from the crowd. Unlike standard RPGs where attacks are based purely on statistics, avoiding attacks here involves avoiding projectiles in 'bullet hell' mini games. More interestingly however is the consequences of such excursions. While the player can kill all enemies encountered they can also use 'mercy' to spare any and every opponent, meaning that the entire story can be completed without killing a single creature. This has a massive effect on the atmosphere of the world during the player's journey as inhabitants will react to the choices made during these fights-- if a character's friends have been killed by the player their opinion of them will be gravely diminished. Regardless, it is left up to the player how to tackle these fights, whatever the circumstance.

So what exactly is it that these two games do in common? To put it simply, the gameplay cannot be separated from the story because it is the story. In Paper's Please, the story is your daily interactions with travellers and how you decide to deal with them. Undertale is the story of how you choose to make friends, rivalries, victims and enemies of the residents of the world that you find yourself trapped in. In both cases, it is impossible to tell the narrative without the gameplay-- the plot is inextricably woven into it. By synthesising these elements, the player's relationship to the story is enhanced as they become an agent within the narrative itself-- actions players make within the environment can be commented on and reacted to, with the player subsequently reacting to these changes. A conversation is formed. Here, the player does not need to roleplay to fit the mould of whatever the story requests: they can simply play themselves and see how the world reacts to it.

Papers Please could be considered a 'purer' form of this design as all gameplay choices weave directly into the narrative. Undertale on the other hand sticks more closely to the traditional approach as combat is the sole component that affects narrative-- the wandering and chatting to locals in between these segments is still linear. Now this does not mean that these components are unnecessary. Under-utilised perhaps, but certainly not a waste. These elements are still required to set the atmosphere and tone and develop the characters of the world. Without these moments, the emotional investment would suffer during these combat sections. However, I do feel that the ideas Toby Fox can communicate solely through Undertale's combat mechanics are too restricted due to the system's simplistic nature: you can only kill or save. This leads to a situation where the outcomes of the story are a bit too clean cut: you are either exalted as a saint for saving everyone, vilified as a vile murderer for killing everyone, or utterly forgettable for anything in between. In this regard I feel that Papers Please has a greater level of nuance as it blurs the lines between all options with the breadth of its conclusions. On top of this, the player's ability to fulfil their job also affects the outcome. The added pressure of having a family to protect and feed means that it is simply not good enough to have good intentions, you must also have the ability to attain it. So few games, even those who games brag about having deep, hard-hitting storylines fail to achieve this.

With other games, the notion of stripping gameplay from narrative is much, much easier. Even looking at games that are praised for their narrative such as 'Mass Effect' or 'Uncharted', gameplay has a minimal effect on the plot's outcome or even the themes the game is trying to communicate. For example, if all the lasers and gunning was removed from Mass Effect how does the story change? Can the story still be told? Apart from a slight shift away from an action-filled tale, nothing has changed-- no matter how many (or how few) aliens and robots you blast on your journey, you will still be able to save the universe and you'll still be the hero. Perhaps some love interests may have gotten away, some comrades slain, but in the end no one cares. You will have the same cutscene as everyone else. The universe will be at peace. Now it might be unfair to bully the Mass Effect franchise especially since I would call it a fun game but I find it incredibly disheartening when it is considered one the best narrative experiences to be found in video games.

Now, one possible reason for this absence of choice is the lack of time for developers to implement a vast network of possible paths. As is, it seems like game developers in large studios are already overworked, so the idea of devoting any more time may simply be impossible. However, I don't think this is the underlying issue. After all, both Papers Please and Undertale were made largely by individuals. In fact, I would argue that the reason it seems so impossible for large studios to achieve something similar is because they have too many people. With such a large body of staff, it seems as if those working on story and those working on gameplay are separated into two different teams. If both these aspects are made independently with little to no communication it would be impossible for their parts to harmonise as neatly as works by individuals such as Pope or Fox. However, it is also impossible for these small indies to create games of similar technical detail as those of larger studios so any shift in these bigger companies seems unlikely. Therefore, such a style of game may only be possible within the hands of small development teams. However, if indie games with similar design patterns to Undertale and Papers Please continue to rise to prominence maybe we will see a focus by the industry, as a whole, towards these styles.