27: Regret, Love, Guilt, Dreams

This post is now two months overdue thanks to illness, medication, and lethargy. Despite its tardiness I simply cannot be bothered writing anything polished; I'm just going to shit something out and call it a day. My condolences to anyone that was hoping for something literate.

This past year, women and passion have been my greatest hurdles. Naturally, the former is infinitely more trivial than the latter. All I will say is that dating on an island is a total clusterfuck if things don't go right the first time. All subsequent lovers will have a degree of separation from your previous that is no more than two. Any major fallout or disagreement will haunt you for months if not years. Past relationships never truly die; they are vampiric, resuscitating themselves with each chance encounter or whisper of gossip. It is suffocating.

That said, the pursuit of women is something that only felt necessary when I was at my most idle. Having regained my passion, the diversion of women now seems rather frivolous.

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My passion for game-making has more or less returned. I'm not sure what exactly happened: I woke up one day and did not leave bed for ten hours, programming away until the dark of night. I've had brief funks like this throughout the year, mostly due to medication. Back then these phases could only sustain themselves for a handful of days. Now they seem to last for weeks on end.

I'm still far from my prime: there have been many, many weeks where I have done absolutely nothing at all. Despite that, on the whole things have been going well. I now feel like I am always thinking. I often find myself getting lost in my own head. New ideas– something I haven't had in several years– are slowly but surely leaking from my mind. It's still a drip-feed for now, but it is the most assured sign that things have markedly improved.

Up until September, I felt like I should simply abandon my dreams for my game: I was making little progress and I'm simply reaching an age where I cannot rot away in a council flat with mere aspirations of developing a career. That has changed. The Valentine Watch is do or die. With my rekindled love of coding, now is my best chance to seize destiny.

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“To make such bets you must be indifferent at some level to whether you end up a king or a monk, or even dead. The indeterminate hedge-trader with his logarithmic utility function assigns infinite negative utility to ruin. The man of action serenely regards ruin as the most likely possible outcome, mitigates it where he can, and leaps anyway. He rejects the comfortable half-existence of drifting with the indeterminate human tide and manifests his bold vision into the world.”

 — Wolf Tivy, Palladium Magazine

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Games
Once again, I have absolutely nothing to say about any videogame; there is nothing further to be said on such matters.

Art
Another year, another bust with art. No new galleries, no extraordinary discoveries, with the exception of Yoshitaka Amano and anduartist.

Being a longstanding fan of Akihiko Yoshida I have of course been aware of Amano and have appreciated his work for some time. This year the appreciation took to another level when I bought his book, Fairies, for a friend. The blend of Amano's style, Pre-Raphaelite concepts, and British folklore made everything click. If his art books weren't so expensive, I would buy some for myself (Worlds of Amano is particularly enticing).

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Anduartist's style feels like Sargent in terms of colour and subject matter. Unfortunately their site is complete shite and utterly impossible to browse. I know that this person has the capacity to become one of my favourite contemporary artists yet their lack of accessibility prevents that.

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Literature

Unlike everything else, my reading this year was particularly fruitful.

First and foremost, I was introduced to Houellebecq. I started with his debut novel, Whatever. It is by far and away the funniest piece of literature I have ever read. Rarely would I audibly laugh at the content of a book. Here, it was unusual for me to be silent for more than a handful of pages. It is consistent with its pacing and humour; only the animal chapters hold it back. I would recommend this book to any man.

I cannot say the same for his second book, Atomised. While interesting, it was far too disturbing. Perhaps I had the wrong mindset when I went into it: I was looking for the same laughs I had in Whatever. Instead I witnessed a descent into miserable depravity. I do not regret reading the novel but I wish I could forget many of the scenes.

Despite this experience, I would like to read more Houellebecq. I think Platform will be next.

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After much anticipation, I finally got around to reading Crime and Punishment; it took me two months to read. While tremendous, it never reached the same heights as Brothers Karamazov (brief moments like Katerina Ivanovna's death come close). The three Karamazov brothers were far more interesting than Raskolnikov. That said, what bothered me most about Crime and Punishment is its structure: the constant fear of getting caught makes the book far too much of an anxious read. Obviously this is a question of personal taste (I am exposing myself as a complete wimp) but the novel was stressful to read. Finally, I think many of its components which would have seemed innovative at the time have been copied again and again so as to become tropes within the genre. While a testament to his ability it is a terrible shame as it does negatively impact the impression left on modern readers.

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In February I read The Prince. It was not what I expected, but I still loved it. Its focus on case studies from medieval Italy and the Roman Empire were unexpected but entertaining. "Machiavellian" used as an adjective today totally misses the point of what he was expressing: while modern usage entertains a sense of ruthless narcissism, Machiavelli simply cared about minimising bloodshed (albeit through any means necessary). It was a pleasant history lesson, all in all.

Manga
I read absolutely nothing new this year. Instead I will use this time to speak about two anime (mostly one) that I watched this year.

Let me start by saying there are no "blokes" left in media. The further you delve into "intellectual" or "indie" spheres of media and the less testosterone you will find. I am not being flippant here– please observe any brochure for any small-to-medium sized film festival in recent years.

The reason these two anime stood out to me was their inherent masculinity. These shows simply could not be made today: the personnel no longer exists for its creation.

Legend of the Galactic Heroes begins like an Homeric Epic, exploring the nature of two warring, ideologically-opposed civilizations and the efforts of great men within them to preserve or reinvigorate the system. As the story progresses and the conflict grows to encompass the entire galaxy the narrative instead narrows its focus onto the intense brotherhood between a handful of participants on either side.

It is an incredible tale. Despite its flaws (its visuals and its handling of religion) I wouldn't hesitate to call it a masterpiece. It is by far and away the best anime I have seen (perhaps with the exception of Hunter x Hunter).

There is so much left to be said about the show. As beloved as it may be among a select few, there is little serious discussion to be found online. One particular concept that has stuck with me since the first episode was the death of Lappe. As far as I can remember, he was the only compatriot that Wen-Li described as being as talented as himself. And yet, he died without grace minutes into our story, all because Reinhard decided to attack one set of scrambled forces rather than another. What would have happened if Reinhard had attacked and annihilated Wen-Li instead of Lappe? How much would history have changed? Could Lappe have fulfilled– or perhaps even exceeded– the role that Wen-Li would have otherwise set forth? It's an amusing line of thought.

My favourite scene is when Mittermeyer's death is falsely reported to the Emperor's ship in the midst of battle in episode 81. For a moment there is silence and shock before the message is corrected, relief returns, and battle resumes. How many other stories explore the nuances of communication in battle?

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Akagi, as well as Noboyuki Fukumoto's other works, don't come close to capturing that same mastery as LotGH but they certainly capture that same masculine essence. I watched Kaiji many years ago and adored it. I have similar feelings about Akagi too. I must see more of Fukumoto's works.

Film
I only visited the cinema once this year (I saw The Creator– it was rubbish). I did not attend Edinburgh Film Festival either (this year's line-up was comically bad). Most of my enjoyment in film was found reacquainting myself with my old favourites.

Apart from The Creator, there was only one other 'new' film that I watched. Despite that, I feel like I haven't missed or overlooked anything of value from this past year. That worries me a little.

This other 'new' film was the much anticipated Decision to Leave. I had been waiting for years for this film; his previous, The Handmaiden, is one of my all-time favourites. My first viewing of Decision to Leave left me rather disappointed. I think this is partially explained by the long wait and my lofty expectations. On first viewing I found it to be a fairly well-crafted and creative film. My main issue lay with the intricacies of the plot which were not always conveyed as forthright as they should have been. I was personally caught off-guard by how significant plot points were announced in relatively inane conversations.

I then rewatched it six months later. Knowing the details of the narrative beforehand vastly improved my experience. No longer worrying about plot points I could appreciate the craftmanship that went into the film. This is the work of an old master, at least on a technical level.

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Back in autumn, I stumbled upon Buffalo '66 on a certain film board. The post described it as a vastly popular film in Japan but relatively unheard of in the US where it was made. This description was sufficient enough to make me watch it that same night.

I loved it; it completely exceeded all of my expectations. Terrifically funny, terrifically tender. Very well crafted. The two main characters were particularly striking: Billy a dispossessed ghoul, Layla a wandering angel.

I have since watched it again and loved it just as much. Similar to Decision to Leave, I felt this second watch revealed just how well-constructed it was.

Despite watching it again barely a month ago, I think I could watch it again. I love it so much.

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I rewatched An Elephant Sitting Still for the fist time; I watched in 2018 at Edinburgh Film Festival, back when they actually screened great films.

I was always a little hesitant to watch it again due to its watch time and dour subject. However, after the effects of a calamitous relationship I decided it was now time.

The film is fantastic; its four hours feels like nothing at all. Everything felt better than I remembered. I can assure you that it will not be half a decade before I watch it again.

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After hunting high and low for another chance to see Yanagawa I finally found my opportunity on a dodgy Chinese pirating website. My firsts impression of the film were far too cautious; this movie is utterly brilliant. It may just be my favourite film of all time.

What I love most is its incredibly naturalistic style. The entire film centres on a group of old friends going on holiday, wandering and loafing around a picturesque town, reminiscing about the past.

I enjoy that they slowly slip into their adolescent selves as they reunite with their long-lost childhood friend. Highschool crushes manifest again in that same juvenile pattern.

Everything feels so real; there are so many relatable experiences captured in scenes. It leaves me baffled: how has no other film captured these exact same feelings?

Of everything accounted for in this year's entry, Yanagawa is the one piece of media I would implore you to explore.

Sadly none of the director's other films capture its magic. I still have a few more to watch, so maybe there's still room to find something special.

Music
For some time I have struggled to find anything consistently good. I have no problem finding the odd song (this year that includes Secrets, She Only Knows, and Ferris Wheel). However I struggle to find anything more substantial: albums, EPs, nor artists. This year, only What is Your Name's The Now Now and Never and Merryn Jeann's eponymous album entertained me for any sizeable amount of time. Even then, I find most of their other works underwhelming.

I revisited Desktop Error when their whole discography was added to mainstream streaming sites. As a band, they come close to this consistency that I'm searching for. Their first album, Ticket to Home, is fantastic, but everything that follows is fairly mediocre, aside from a few gems.

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I will make a point out of the fact that I listened to Radiohead's "greatest" albums for the first time this year. Up until now I had only listened to In Rainbows and A Moon Shaped Pool. I adore In Rainbows (A Moon Shaped Pool is only serviceable) so I was expecting something incredible when listening to OK Computer and Kid A. I found them both terribly overrated.

That said, Everything in its Right Place is perhaps the best opening song of any album.

Coda
I've noticed a cycle in these annual journals. The first year is coated in an air of misery and defeat; the next harbours hope and promise for the future. This cycle reliably runs back and forth for several years.

I hate the idea of evoking memes, but the dual nature of “it's so over” and “we're so back” can easily be applied to my circumstance.

This entry was rather rushed but my 27th year has been a depressive episode. Hopefully that means 28 will be a little brighter. Two months into this year, I already feel a sliver of sunshine.

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P.S. I have been using Chat-GPT on-and-off this past year. For Slick2D it has been a blessing; everything else not so much. That said, I had a rather profound interaction with it back in May. I was listening to Secrets by the Bilinda Butchers. The song uses a sample from some Cantonese film in its outro; a handful of lines from a conversation between a man and a woman. I asked Chat-GPT what was said. It responded:

“What do you think? I think we are meant to be together, but we still have to hurt each other.”

你觉得呢？我觉得我们像是天生一对，可是我们还是要互相伤害。

I now know that this answer is bullshit: having looked up YouTube comments its clear that the sample is from Wong Kar-Wai's 2046. What is said is clearly different, but my god, doesn't it sound like something from one of his films? This is perhaps the only time I have enjoyed using AI.

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Streets, Squares and Alleys: Level Design in The Valentine Watch

A Long Overdue Update
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In September I finished implementation of all levels necessary for the demo's release. Before August the only complete stage was the pub used in the game's introduction (and that level was completed over two years ago, christ). While that level alone is responsible for around half of the demo's playthrough, the other half is comprised of a wide array of outdoor stages, none of which were as-of-yet implemented. I had actually attempted to jump-start this process last Autumn by sketching out some designs for these levels. However my motivation for this facet of development evaporated shortly after I completed their sketches. The drawings were tossed on a shelf, untouched and unused for the better part of a year.

Now twelves months later, I thought it was about bloody time I cracked on and finished them.

The demo takes place within a quiet district inside the 'old town' of Valentine. As such, I wanted to make use of traditional building styles, namely half-timbered construction:

I think it's fair to say that this style of structure has become a cliché within the fantasy game genre, particularly J-RPGs. That said, they are rarely found in games set in modern eras despite the fact that they are still prevalent to this day in large regions of England, France, and Germany.

If we look at games in particular, implementations of this architecture can be flat and disappointing; oftentimes they are reduced to simple pale boxes painted with a wooden outline. While straightforward designs such as these can give buildings a somewhat serviceable amount of detail without a vast amount of effort, I would argue that they are doing a great disservice to the craft. These veneers often fail to capture some of the most unique and unusual aspects of the design such as jettying:

not the most obvious example of jettying but it's the only photo I have

The inclusion of these overhangs in your work can surely serve a greater purpose than academic masturbation. First of all, they create distinct and eye-catching outlines for the homes, halls and hovels that feature them, enhancing their visual appeal and atmosphere: narrow alleys become suffocating when these jetties lurch over the path, robbing it of daylight and dwarfing those caught under their shadow. They can also perform a functional role: on days with heavy rain, pedestrians could take shelter from the weather by seeking refuge underneath some of the more pronounced overhangs.

All of this functionality could be derived from the inclusion of this single element of design.

It should go without saying that buildings don't need to be 100% accurate, far from it-- I'm certainly not pushing for this. That said, I think the value of investigating and researching some of the finer points of architectures is criminally underrated.

I also think we need to reevaluate how we look at levels in a broader capacity. One of my pet peeves with level design is that we often see player convenience and accommodation of gameplay mechanics take precedence over the creation of a believable and rational world: why is the enemy standing right beside some TNT? Why aren't all NPC villages in the part of the world with no monsters? Why is there a convenient exit at the heart of this dark dungeon?

Yes, I know some of these may sound ridiculous. However I find it worrying that we simply gloss over these issues; as an audience we've grown so accustomed to them that we no longer question their inclusion. Can we not have convenient design and convincing worlds?

This problem can be seen at both micro- and macro- scales. To give a glaring example, take a look at Pokemon. Despite being 'open world', the game (largely) follows a single route that you cannot diverge from in any meaningful way. Despite being one contiguous world, the Pokemon you encounter, the strength of the trainers you meet, the items sold in shops are all conveniently tailored to the given route set out by the designer. Does this make sense within the world? No! No explanation is given in-game, either. It is simply a world made convenient for the player and no one else.

I absolutely detest this feeling of being lured down a single route, lead by the designer rather than by my own agency.

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So how does that rant relate to The Valentine Watch? Well ultimately I aim to minimise as much of these faults as I can with my level design. While there is only so much I can do within a short 15-minute demo there are several key points I have tried to tackle.

When it comes to creating a realistic and believable world, I have tried to design this district of Valentine as a web of streets rather than a series of levels or stages. The urban environment behaves and presents itself much like a normal, real-life neighbourhood: the streets branch and wind, weaving through other streets and alleys. The path you are expected to travel is not glowing or coloured gold-- it is a town of inhabitants, not your playground.

This is not to say that it is entirely directionless. There are places that you are 'meant' to go, but it is ultimately your choice whether you follow these signals or not. You are 'meant' to walk home with your mentor after a drink at the pub but you could just as easily stay and have a few more drinks. But if that's the case, good luck finding your own way home.

From a technical perspective, the body of each building is derived from a tileset composed of 24x24 tiles. Each 'texture' of half-timber (clay, cobble, etc.) has around 90 unique tiles. By making the set highly flexible I was able to make every building within the demo unique, reflecting the one-of-a-kind nature of their real-world counterparts.

The construction of these tilesets took a surprising amount of time, the bulk of which came from testing each tile's ability to align and tessellate with other tiles. This process was constant and gradual-- small, incremental tweaks were made as new inconsistencies were discovered. The sets weren't fully complete until halfway through level implementation.

While tiles were used to build the walls of each structure, additional elements were required for doors, windows, and other miscellaneous objects. About 200 of these assets were required in total for the demo, the majority of which were made from scratch.

A tileset was also created for terrain. It was absolutely imperative that this set was flexible, even more so than half-timber as it has to blend into several ground patterns: cobble, dirt, grass and more. It was important that frequently-used tiles such as cobble had plenty of variation (e.g. different stone orientations, missing stones,...) so that their repeated use is easy on the eyes. Overall, I'm pleased with the result and I think this set provides more variety than your standard 2D-RPG fare:

Plenty of engine adjustments were necessary to speed up the development pipeline and accommodate these new levels. Some of these levels were magnitudes larger than the pub so the engine had to be optimised to accommodate them (up until this point I didn't realise how much I had to care about GC in Java, what an amateur).

You can see the influence these engine changes and asset generation had on the development time for each individual level:

• First Level:               1 Month
• Second Level:          10 Days
• Third Level:              1 Week
• Every Other Level:   1-3 Days

Once the ball started rolling, it rolled.

All in all, it took just under two months to develop the stages. The last few weeks of the process were absolute hell (80 hour weeks are no fun at all) but I'm glad they are done.

With all levels completed, the only significant portion left to complete is a very nasty bit of AI. I'll tell you all about it very soon.

** For those who are curious, I took the photos in Dinan, a delightful town in Northern France.

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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Difficulty is not an Option

There has been a lot of hubbub in recent months surrounding the concept of difficulty in games: can games be too hard? Can they be too easy? Should the player be able to regulate their difficulty? This topic is nothing new within the community: it has reemerged time and time again, unearthing itself alongside the release of some new game that disrespects the player for picking less-challenging difficulties¹, or introducing some novel method of regulating difficulty², or perhaps the absence of any difficulty settings at all³. Within each iteration of this debate the same two factions arise. The first group could be roughly classified as 'classical gamers' and are typically against all design features that diminish the intended challenge of a game. Their beliefs staunchly oppose the proliferation of features that promote design elements such as 'hand-holding' and 'rubber-banding'. In their view, these features diminish the level of challenge with a game, so much so in some cases that the act of completing them no longer feels like an achievement. And what is a game without any challenge or achievement? Conversely, the opposition is composed of players who believe that a game's purpose is to provide the player with 'fun', or more loosely, entertainment. Simplistically speaking, their position is concerned with making games as accessible as possible to its player base-- if a game is turning away players in frustration due to its design or due to its challenge, then the developer has failed to make an entertaining, and therefore worthwhile game.


With each iteration of these arguments, the community never reaches any sort of consensus; the arguments typically boil down to whether the focus of a game should be to provide a challenge or to entertain the player as much as possible. For classical gamers these two ideas may be one and the same (and its the synthesis of these two attributes that makes a game a game). For many others however these motives could not be any more diametrically opposed. However, the ideas being discussed at the root of this debate are completely misguided. Instead of arguing whether or not games are too easy or too difficult we should be asking why games don't provide any meaningful narrative insight when the player fails-- player failure is rarely incorporated into the narrative despite it being a fundamental part of the experience for almost all playthroughs in any game.

GTA V

'Player failure' is a situation in which the player has failed to achieve something expected of them by the game. This can be caused by a broad range of factors depending on the type of game: falling off a stage in a platformer, losing all your health in a shoot 'em up, or even failing a mission objective in a first person shooter. In most cases a player failure results in some kind of 'fail-state': a situation in which the player cannot progress any further and must retry the sequence again. Essentially a GAME OVER or MISSION FAILED screen (see image above). During this process the player is whisked back to some previous position before the failure occurred, typically incurring some sort of quantitative penalty in the process: coins, points, lives, souls, etc. Apart from these small penalties, the existence of the failure is typically forgotten by the game: it is treated as an unwanted mistake and is erased from the experience without a trace, never to be seen again. This is the problem with games, not how easy or hard they are.


It is these kinds of situations where the player has failed to achieve their role that the game (and the developer by extension) should have a profound interest in. So long as it wasn't a bug-related issue, the reason for the player's failure is due to the player themselves. It should be within the developer's interest to contextualise the player's failure within the experience they are trying to tell, not to simply discard it. What does it mean to have failed saving the princess? Failed to save a hostage? Failed to escape the dungeon? If these situations are all possible within the game, the narrative should have an answer for them.


It is important to make the distinction between two types of player failure: mechanical and narrative. While there should be significant overlap between the two⁴, it is important to highlight the difference and how each uniquely affects the player's experience. Mechanical failure is due to the player failing to use the game's mechanics to solve the problem given to them. This 'problem' could be a level in a platformer, an enemy in a fighter, or a puzzle in a puzzler. Failure in such systems is usually caused by the player's lack of understanding or misapplication of a particular mechanic or system. Mechanical failure varies from game to game, but the rules that govern them are explicit within the design: falling off the stage, losing all your health, reaching an unwinnable state in a puzzle. In such situations, some sort of 'reset' is required to pull the player out of their position as progress can no longer be made-- you can't progress through a level any more if you have fallen off of all the platforms. Resetting the game allows for the player to revise their tactics and experiment, over and over, plugging gaps in their knowledge and boosting their understanding of the systems in play. After an indeterminate amount of time you would expect the player to be able to reach a level of understanding where they can now complete the problem that they previously failed. This 'trial and error' approach forms the fundamental backbone of almost all games as well as the primary tenet of the classical gamers' philosophy.


Now on the other hand, a narrative failure exists when the player fails to do something expected of them by the narrative-- failing to aid a character, failing to track a suspect, killing an ally and so forth. These are objectives that are not explicit within the games rules-- they are expressed solely through the narrative and are present only as long as the narrative requires it. These additional rules are forced into a game because the narrative created ceases to function when unexpected actions are made: you cannot save the man we asked you to kill. You cannot betray your allies. You must save the princess. Deviating from the expected path is treated as a fail-state only because it breaks these additional narrative rules used to safeguard the plot. As ridiculous as it may sound, why do games need to rely on these additional rules solely for narrative cohesion? Why are actions that are mechanically sound within the universe considered fail-states solely due narrative concerns? It is entirely possible for the game to continue despite the narrative failure committed by the player, yet it chooses not to.

Narrative failures arise from a game narrative that consciously limits the set of actions permissible within the game's systems.

To put it into other words, narrative failures are a result of a narrative being imposed on game systems that it is unfit to serve. When the narrative was written it didn't take into account all the options available to the player through the game's design. Or even worse, the writers decided that certain types of play were simply 'wrong', despite them being mechanically sound. This refusal to handle any situation other than what is deemed 'normative behaviour' has stifled games' ability to tell anything meaningful that exists outside of what is desired. This aversion reaches the point of absurdity where some games⁵ have situations in which you are forced to lose to a certain enemy. Unbeknownst to the player, the rules for succeeding and failing have been swapped for this scenario. Now what is this warped situation supposed to convey? The player is left in confusion; the game has suddenly decided that failure is desirable, but only when it wants it to. This situation also creates dissonance in future playthroughs where the player, having knowledge of this scenario, realises it is in their best interest to stop resisting and allow these enemies to defeat you, breaking the role of their character.

The first encounter with the Cloud of Darkness in FFIII is one such instance of an unwinnable fight

We reach such absurd scenarios when we treat narrative failures no differently than mechanical failures. While a fail-state is adequate, perhaps even necessary, for mechanical failures, this is certainly not true for narrative failures. The difference lies in causality. With the mechanics of the game, it should be clear to the player (so long as they understand the systems) exactly why and how they failed: they missed a jump, they took too much damage, they finished the race last. Not only is it clear why they died, but also how they can prevent the failure from happening again: a more precise jump, taking less hits, making quicker laps. The same reasoning cannot be applied to narrative failures. Both the problem and the solution are only outlined within the narrative as much as it sees fit, sometimes surfacing only after the problem has been solved. There is also room for interpretation within each narrative as it's not always clear what you are supposed to do or how you are supposed to achieve it. Videos games are an interactive medium so why do we so rarely see games interacting with these different interpretations instead of disregarding them as another fail-state?

Here is a hypothetical situation. Imagine you play the role of a super-patriotic-almost-propaganda soldier sent on missions across the world with your team to combat terror. Your typical first-person shooter fanfare. So what happens if you decide to go against your orders and spare an enemy? Such an action would go against everything the game expects and wants you to do. In most games you would just be thrown into a fail-state and forced to restart the mission once you miss your opportunity. However this doesn't teach the player anything or allow them to interact with the narrative in any way-- their protest to the game's narrative ideals are left unchallenged and ignored so the player is left with nothing to do other than to shrug their shoulders and blindly follow the mission's orders without gaining any insight or consequence: the player is torn away from their role as a driving influence within the world and is instead forced into a much more passive role, one where their only choice is to follow the game's authority.


Instead of forbidding the player from acting freely, the game should allow the player to carry out their actions and then respond by shaping the narrative in a way that shows the player why their actions are wrong. The player should be convinced that they want to be the hero; they shouldn't be forced into the role. One such way of doing this is by providing a means for the player to face the consequences of their actions. Guilt could be produced by linking the player's 'incorrect' decision to new dire circumstances that emerge in the narrative: perhaps the target that the soldier spared goes on to kill the protagonist's allies in later missions. With the narrative irrevocably shifted in a negative direction, the player is constantly reminded of their failure. They may even regret their decision. Regardless of how they feel, a stain has been left on their experience. In such situations, players who fail (whether by choice or inability) still progress, but along a different path from the successful players. This alternate direction gives the players the opportunity to understand why their actions were treated as a failure. If the game is successful in their conviction, the player is going to be compelled to succeed in the future according to the narrative's own ideals, just like the other players who succeeded.

A practical example of this is the opening act of Undertale. Here, the developer Toby Fox managed to eliminate all forms of narrative-induced fail-states-- all narrative failures are accounted for within the game's narrative. In this scene, the player is introduced to Toriel, a mother-like figure who protects and cares for the protagonist after they fall into the underground. The protagonist's desire to escape the underground means that they have to venture deeper into it, putting themselves in greater danger-- something that Toriel is actively against. This is the source of the conflict: the player is pitted against their friend and the only way they can seemingly progress is by defeating her. However, to defeat her would mean killing her. The player is ofcourse not expected to make this choice. The narrative makes it clear that it wants you to save her-- the game has told you time and time again that "nobody needs to die". The player has probably spared previous enemies from death too, giving credence to this mantra. However, the way the player can spare these character's from death is unknown. This is the problem that the game wants you to solve.


In this example we have one mechanical failure and one narrative failure: losing all your health and dying, and killing Toriel. Now, in a traditionally-designed game, both failures would result in the same fail-state:

Undertale's Fail-State

However, in Undertale, killing Toriel doesn't lead to this situation. Instead the game continues onward. Shortly after the fight in this situation, the player is confronted by a character named Flowey. He brings into question the player's conduct: how could they be so horrific? how could they kill a friend? He wants the player to answer for their actions. Even after this dialogue, the consequences of the player's action can still be felt in later interactions when other characters note her absence. It is not unlikely that some players will end up reloading their save in an attempt to fix their mistake, not too unlike the reset that occurs during a fail-state. Perhaps they have been conditioned to do so. Here Undertale's mastery shines: the game confronts the player's inability to face the consequences of their failures within its own narrative. When the player reloads their save, if they spare Toriel during this attempt, the player is once again confronted by Flowey except this time he taunts you, telling you that even if Toriel is alive, he knows that you murdered her before. He prevents the player from erasing their own shortcomings, leaving the guilt to haunt the player for the remainder of the journey. They now know not to take the consequences of their actions so lightly.

In this situation, difficulty wasn't needed-- while more insightful players may have been able to avoid Toriel's death completely, less experienced players may have killed her and perhaps even reset their save in a vain attempt to save her. Their progress through the game is not halted due to their narrative failure. Instead they are forced to live with it while also gaining another chance to understand the permanence of their actions and the weight of the lives of others: both key motifs within the game's narrative. Players who faced guilt will be more determined to succeed in future interactions-- the guilt serving as a reminder to what happens when they fail. They learn from this mistake and develop as players. They are brought onto the same page as those that already understood these concepts of consequence and morality and managed to succeed in sparing Toriel. Both groups of players took different paths but have arrived at the same conclusion.


Traditionally-designed games don't have a narrative as receptive to this kind of failure. Instead, you are forced to pick the narrative outcome that the developer wants you to achieve. They might give you a single option, they might give you many, but rarely is failing one of them. How can successes conveyed by the narrative have any real significance if success is the only outcome available within it? When there is no choice for progress except winning we are ignoring all of the stories that can only be told through defeat.


The provision of difficulty settings are used as a quick-fix for these meaningless, success-driven narratives that fail to accommodate the player. Using difficulty settings is akin to providing a cure for the symptom without treating the underlying issue itself. It also introduces a new, more severe problem of its own as changing the difficulty of the game fundamentally changes its nature. Playing a shooter on easy as opposed to very hard is the difference between assuming the role of an indestructible demigod and an ordinary infantryman. The tone, the atmosphere, even the ideas the narrative conveys all shift. As a developer you need to have control over all of these tools in order to fine-tune the experiences that you design-- deferring them to the player will only warp their outcome. Despite this, it is understandable why some developers implement them regardless of their adverse effects. The pressure to accommodate players of low ability is often necessary to keep the game open to them: perhaps some experience is better than none at all. However, instead of deregulating difficulty, developers should aim to rid their games of fail-states induced from narrative failures. Not only would they be providing new avenues for their experiences to explore, they also provide methods of interacting with players who otherwise might be unable. It is nothing but arrogance from developers and gamers who belittle players who pick lower difficulties. The true folly lies with those creators who are intolerant to working with the concept of failure.


[1] It Might Be Time To Rethink Difficulty Menus
https://kotaku.com/it-might-be-time-to-rethink-difficulty-menus-1820961183

[2] Celeste is hard, but its creators are smart about difficulty
https://www.polygon.com/2018/1/26/16935964/celeste-difficulty-assist-mode

[3] Code Vein Director Touches On the Game’s Difficulty, Character Development, and…Vampires
http://www.siliconera.com/2017/09/25/code-vein-director-touches-games-difficulty-character-development-andvampires/

[4] Synthesising Gameplay and Narrative: A Look into Papers Please and Undertale
http://www.jakorah.com/2017/04/synthesising-gameplay-and-narrative.html

[5] Hopeless Boss Fight
http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/HopelessBossFight

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.