Adaptation Idea #1 : Tokyo Ghoul

This piece is the first in a series focussed on the ideas and theory discussed here-- it would be worthwhile reading that first!

(For the purpose of this piece I will only be looking at the original series. I will be disregarding the :RE sequel as I feel its shift in tone and structure is detrimental (and unneeded) for substantiating a case for a Tokyo Ghoul adaptation. Naturally there will be some light spoilers, the most severe of which ambiguously reference the conclusion of the story. Beware!)

Lurking in the periphery of society, man-eating monsters feast upon unsuspecting members of the public. They are much stronger and faster than ordinary humans. Worse still, their appearance and demeanour is indistinguishable from our own. They live amongst us, but we can never be sure who or where they are. Humanity is helpless against their predation.

In an effort to exterminate these ghouls, the world's nations have founded organisations to combat their threat. In Japan, this institution is known as the CCG-- the Commission of Counter Ghoul.

Such is the story of Sui Ishida's Tokyo Ghoul. The story is told through two opposing perspectives. First, through Ken Kaneki, a human who was transformed into a ghoul under mysterious circumstances. We follow him as he comes to terms with his new life as he develops relationships with fellow ghouls and comes to understand the reality of their existence. We also follow Koutarou Amon, a dutiful new recruit to the CCG. Following his investigations we see his preconceptions of ghouls evolve as he learns the nuances of their nature and of his role in their eradication.

From both sides we observe the horrors of the conflict between society and ghouls.

This plot structure is fairly common, found in classics ranging from The Iliad to Romeo & Juliet. Here, the foundation of the structure remains largely intact: two factions locked in a bitter struggle, with the point of view alternating between two protagonists- Kaneki and Amon in this case- each representing a different faction within the conflict. Neither side is inherently just or unjust-- such a distinction is typically irrelevant to the message of the piece. Instead lens are placed on the diverse perspectives of those engulfed within the struggle, allowing the audience to observe the conflict from a more objective standpoint, a luxury not given to those within. While this structure is popular in other mediums we rarely see it applied in games.

One reason I think that this conflict in particular is so interesting is that while both sides have almost identical goals ("protect Mankind/Ghoulkind") their circumstances, culture, means of living and means of pursuing their goal are wholly unalike: the CCG is a vast, bureaucratic authority with a looming presence over everyday society. Ghouls on the other hand operate discretely in small, loose tribes far from the public eye.

I believe that it's absolutely essential for an adaptation to preserve this asymmetric structure in order for it to capture the essence of the material.

This asymmetry could be reflected within the game's mechanics. What matters isn't so much the genre but rather how you incorporate this asymmetrical design into each faction's blueprint. In the case of an action game the most obvious method of achieving this would be to alter the movesets of each party to cater towards their distinct approach. Ghouls, with their superhuman physiques could have a much more acrobatic and erratic melee-driven style of attack. For example, their extreme resilience and regeneration could be conveyed through a generous health bar allowing them to act more fearlessly. Instinctual and impulsive play should be rewarded as to reflect their ghoulish nature. CCG Investigators on the other hand should be forced into more coordinated, strategic, and surgical offensives as their comparatively frail bodies require them to act more cautiously. They must leverage their numerical advantage and the vast array of specialist equipment at their disposal if they are to be successful in their subjugation.

To match the dark tone of the manga distinct flavours of horror must be sprinkled on each system: for the CCG, the appearance of ghouls could be altered to feel much more monstrous, feral and powerful; the idea of eliminating such a creature should feel daunting. On the other hand, as a ghoul you should feel like prey, stalked mercilessly by ruthless predators. In both cases your party should feel threatened by the presence of the other.

If the developer was so inclined to break convention, there are a breadth of opportunities available for more idiosyncratic game mechanics. Instead of focussing on a frontline CCG investigator, the protagonist could instead be a run-of-the-mill white-collar worker in the CCG. Working from their office cubicle, they are in-charge of organising raids, processing captured ghouls, and recruiting new investigators. Results and feedback would all be received exclusively via emails, faxes, and office discussion. As part of this vast bureaucracy they are distanced from the realities of the fight against ghouls. Aside from a few reverberations (such as a colleague killed in action), the conflict is nothing more than a series of statistics. Such a setup could better reflect the institutionalisation of ghoul extermination.

Conversely, the ghoul protagonist could be a waiter at a Ghoul-run Coffee shop (as coffee is the only substance other than human flesh that ghouls can consume). Rather than running rampant across Tokyo, this innocuous lifestyle places them far from the troubles of a typical ghoul. In such a scenario we could develop the story through the relationships the protagonist builds through the shop's clientèle (ghoulkind or otherwise), learning of their experiences within this cruel world. Maybe some of the ghoul clients never come back. Far from the violence, you can only hear rumours and reports of their demise.

Whatever the format, it is absolutely necessary to portray the reverberations of each character's decisions not only on their own environment, but on the environment of the opposing protagonist. These effects should not be blatant, especially at the outset. Instead, it may even be wise to have no apparent consequences to these decisions: the player should be lulled into a false sense of comfort, oblivious to their own consequences. If possible, the player should be coaxed into a position where they detest the actions of the other faction without realising that they were the one directly responsible for making that decision while playing the other protagonist. If the developer is successful in this conceit, they have organically reduced the player to just another actor unwittingly perpetuating the struggle.

As the player grows accustomed to both protagonists' surroundings they should be able to paint an increasingly clear picture of the conflict as well as any potential consequences their actions may propagate. To mirror the "tragedy" of the source material we would only want the player to achieve this clarity once it's too late for their redemption: they are already too entrenched and too accountable to escape it: the past won't forget their actions. Instead, they will be left in a position where they have no choice but to knowingly perpetuate the turmoil in an effort to protect as much as they can. This would provide a perfect parallel to Kaneki and Amon's doomed encounter in the final act of the series.

Each attempt at redemption should only draw them closer to demise. Despite that, each subsequent choice should offer a faint glimmer of hope, just enough to give the player the confidence to believe that it will be 'different this time'. But there is no happy end, only tragedy. Despite the player's best efforts all they will experience is their unwilling descent into regret.

For this scheme to work it is absolutely imperative that both parties are perceived as equally sympathetic. A failure to do so would inevitably result in a bias towards the more sympathetic party. In such a scenario, much of the narrative's significance is lost-- decisions become a matter of optimisation rather than an ill-fated exercise in damage reduction.

Removing partiality from all player experiences is of course unreasonable. However, I believe it could be minimised by slowly shifting the morality of the side given preference. As the player pushes a faction into an increasingly dominant position, their means of force should become increasingly objectionable as the annihilation of the other side approaches: the CCG could track down and kill 'innocent', non-violent ghouls if the possibility of their extinction becomes viable. On the other hand, ghouls could become more opportunistic and barbaric when selecting their prey if they know that response from the CCG is weakened. Naturally, this shift should be gradual; one would hope that as these transgressions stack up, increasingly prejudiced players would begin to question and disavow their side, creating a new balance between the two forces.

Up until this point I have refrained from mentioning any character in detail as I don't think their inclusion, even the series protagonists, is necessary in conveying the atmosphere, tone or even the core of the material (as evidenced by the multiple spin-offs that shift the focus away from the primary characters^[1][2]).

That being said, both Kaneki and Amon have backgrounds that would be easy to adopt as the player. At the beginning of each of their arcs, both characters are thrust into a new world and have yet to adapt to their new surroundings: Kaneki is forced to accept his new life as a ghoul and Amon is just starting out his new career as an investigator. In both cases there is nothing that the player would need to understand about the role before assuming it. In fact, it would be expected for the player to operate in a similar manner as these characters as they too would have zero experience in these scenarios.

From there you would expect the player's perspective to mature alongside those of the protagonists'. As each character experiences more and more at the forefront of the struggle their understanding of conflict- and the nature of their role within it- expands and they begin to develop a sympathy for the other side. Naturally these nuances will be apparent to the player much earlier due to their frequent perspective switching. However I don't believe that this would be detrimental to the narrative, especially if it was accounted for in the adaptation's design.

Looking more closely at Kaneki, it is very apparent how his own arc could be implemented naturally in a choice-driven system. His primary drive during the first half of the story is a lack of power to protect his friends. This could easily be reflected in the nature of the choices given to the player in the early stages of the game. If the player is starting at the bottom of the skill ladder (e.g. level 1), then of course they will be powerless to act. Naturally the player would want to increase their level, skill, or whatever so that they can actually take control of situations. When the player has overcome that challenge they will likely parallel the next stage of Kaneki's arc where he tries to achieve everything himself so that his comrades are never placed in danger. If there is the looming possibility of death when the player delegates a task to an ally then it is very likely that the player would try to do as much of the work as possible to minimise loss, even if the amount of risk was minute. And with that, the player would have naturally mirrored the progression of Kaneki (if you cut a few corners) and would be ripe to experience the same downfall as he did in the climax of the manga.

Tokyo Ghoul is ripe for a great game adaption. Any potential developer would have plenty of narrative and mechanical freedom due to the strength of the material's themes, tone and atmosphere as well as its depth of setting, providing plenty of room for expansion and reinterpretation.

The only difficulties I foresee reside within the design of the game itself rather than the limitations of the source material. It is absolutely pivotal that the developer succeeds in making both factions equally sympathetic and worthy of saving. A failure to do so would result in an absence of hard-choices for the player. And with no struggle and no tragedy, there is no Tokyo Ghoul.


Difficulty: **

This piece has taken an absolute age to write. I started writing it over a year ago and it has gone through countless rewrites I'm still not entirely happy. I hope that it's alright!

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