It takes a brave man to admit to some mistakes in his life.

Like the time I bought Driv3r and convinced myself that it wasn’t that bad. Let’s face it, if you’ve ever played that game on its release day and not read what people said on GameFAQs (then made those opinions your own), you probably tried hard to forget the horror on display using sheer denial. You probably sat there thinking, ‘hey, it’s no GTA3 but it’s fun. I’m having fun. I paid £30 to have fun!’

Then my other half turned to me and spoke the truth.

‘Steve, this game is shit.’

Yes, yes it was.

That’s when it’s time to admit the mistake, but honestly, no man will do that until they let enough time pass and call in the hindsight card. Sometimes however, there are just some mistakes that you can’t admit to. Not because you’re living in denial, but because you see something worthy to champion. It’s hard to explain, but even though I made a mistake in buying it at full price, limited edition et al, I actually like Alone in the Dark 5.

If I was in some kind of Gamers Anonymous, I’d probably have a rousing round of applause right about now. Instead all I can hear is the clattering of keys and my other half reminiscing of the time when she was right about Driv3r as I type this. How sad.

Alone in the Dark 5 was vilified on release. Eden Games deserved having all that hate thrown at them; it was a broken game made by their hands after all. Was it entirely their fault though? I don’t think so. I think the problem lay with Atari and their sudden change of heart with the game’s development; they cut the schedule and rushed the release for their financial records. Apparently, there’s a lot missing from the original premise; radio stations giving you updates, rescuing survivors and taking them to sanctuary, more interaction with the mobile phone, etc. So, Dead Rising set in Central Park then. Everywhere you turn in the environment, you feel there was something more going on at one point and it’s always just beyond reach.

I should have seen it coming when the Senior Producer, Nour Polloni, was really pushing the buzzword cart out like she was freeing horses from a burning stable. I’m pretty sure one video on Gametrailers has her repeatedly shouting ‘LOOK! FIRE!’ because she had nothing else to show anymore. Eden Games tried their best to salvage their reputation with the ‘fixed’ PS3 version, AITD: Inferno, but the damage was done. Not that I should really defend Eden Games anyway for some poor design choices, but at least they tried to rectify some technical mistakes.



Most of the hate had nothing to do with the game itself, like Kane & Lynch: Dead Men, it suffered the snowball effect of the Gamespot forums. Seriously, have you ever read about a game that gets a 6/10 score and then all of a sudden everyone on the internet has apparently played it and agree that it is ‘the worst thing ever released in the world...ever’? It seems daft, but it goes to show how shockingly influential forum users are these days. It’s barely a step up from ‘paid off’ journalists though. I mean, Kane & Lynch is still considered a flop despite the one million sales it achieved; all because a few people on that GameFAQs started that rumour.

This fifth instalment of the famous survival horror franchise suffered its own night terrors too. I’ll level with you, AITD5 is not a great game, but it had so many ideas and experiments on offer, I won’t be surprised if some developers start cannibalising the good parts and using it in their games soon. All in all, it was an amazing tech demo that I paid full price for. It seems stupid to say it, but I enjoyed the all the little cogs in a broken machine.

So why do I like it?

Okay, let’s start with the combination of items. It’s a survival horror tradition to combine whatever is at hand, but only with linear selection. AITD5 pushed that mechanic further and you could create the same weapons with different variables. You could make a Molotov cocktail with a bandage, a bottle of booze and a lighter or you could make it with just a bottle and fire at it with flammable bullets to get the same effect. If you didn’t have alcohol at hand, you could siphon some petrol from abandoned cars. You could combine an aerosol can with a lighter and you’d have a short range flamethrower, but maybe you wanted a bigger range...say 'hello' to the gas canister!

This is the kind of deep immersive gaming that people scream for a regular basis. What AITD5 failed to comprehend was that, despite all these combinations available, there wasn’t much use for them. For all that innovation, it’s a shame your objectives are to fundamentally burn objects. It’s amazing how much of the game you can get through by using a mini-flame thrower and a sticky bomb.

Every time I played the game however, I found myself constantly experimenting. The game really represented true survival horror in the way characters have to improvise with what they could scavenge. Edward Carnby doesn’t have magic pockets, so you’re constantly making decisions about what you can make more efficient in your armoury. I know a lot of people had problems with this idea, but seriously, how different is it compared to every other survival horror game? Dead Space had the same real-time inventory system with the same quick button features.

As for the physics involved, there are some decent puzzles that use the engine to its full advantage. Early on, Edward is trapped in a crumbling apartment and has to rescue people. Any other game would have you looking for a key for the locked doors, but here you can just smash them open with a fire extinguisher, shoot the lock, or burn the door down. The fire effects on display here are amazing and I’m surprised nobody hasn’t stolen it, but I guess the idea of fire slowly burning wood like it should is about as exciting as a stamp collecting bonus round in a fighting game.

I’m still confused about how the car physics in this game are truly appalling though. That’s something can’t defend when you see a car stop dead or flip over Blues Brothers-style when it hits a curb.



You know what else I liked and many didn’t care for? It tried to be a sandbox horror game. Well, not quite fully sandbox (it was still linear to a point because of its episodic structure) but I can’t think of any other survival horror has ever tried to make a sandbox environment (other than the time restrictive Dead Rising). Alan Wake was supposedly a sandbox world at first, but Remedy opted for a linear approach because it would be hard to maintain the tension. In AITD5, to an extent, the sandbox element works because you never feel safe around Central Park. You’re always on the move and improvising your travel arrangements on the fly; once you leave the safety of the car, it’s a constant game of cat and mouse. It’s a shame all the bad controls and bizarre decision to use a restrictive camera angle smothered the fun.

Honestly, the game over-reaches itself so many times that it becomes its own worst enemy. It’s like if Peter Molyneux invented a Professor Farnsworth contraption that turned him into a videogame. I mean, it’s great that you have a button for just about everything and the freedom to do anything with the mundane, but there’s also too much of a good thing and when there’s little use for them, then it’s not really fascinating.



If you didn’t have the patience for this game, then you probably missed out on some ideas ripe for the picking. Then again, you can easily tell me that I’m just probably justifying a full-blown purchase on a broken, limited edition version of a videogame where the original series wasn’t all that great in the first place (well, except the original Alone in the Dark). Either way, it’s a mistake I don’t regret because it showed the potential for the immersion of games, while showing gamers to be careful what they wish for.

And hey, it’s nowhere near as bad as Uwe Boll’s take on AITD: The New Nightmare...right?

RIGHT?



Riiiiiight!

Have you ever watched the Doctor Who spin-off Torchwood and thought you couldn’t take it seriously because of the Welsh accents (and not on the account of the schizophrenic writing involved)?

Well, I’m Welsh. So up yours, racist!

Okay, maybe that was a little extreme. Many people don’t even realise I’m Welsh until they look at my profile on Xbox Live...then laugh at me. We don’t all sound like that, nor do we shag sheep in the large city areas and sometimes we’re not comedic ‘village idiot’ sidekicks. Yes, even in games, we get to be the hero. Your wretched lives are in our hands, but we are proud people, a sort of ‘poor man’s Scottish’ if you will, and we get the job done just as well as the Americans.

I remember when I first played this game and within the opening sequence it told me we were in Wales. To see the word ‘Aberystwyth’ blew my mind somewhat and I don’t even like the place! After that, I thought if the game was truly appalling then it was still alright since an obscure game had already gone one step further with an obscure setting. Maybe my Game Snobbery Radar was acting up, but after that opening FMV, I felt the game couldn’t do anything wrong.



Set in the 19th century, Koudelka is the story of a psychic Welsh gypsy girl who is summoned by the usual spooky voices to seek out a rundown abbey in Aberystwyth. Upon entering by using sneaky methods (which contributes to many a crime stats spike when gypsies decide to settle nearby) , Koudelka Iasant saves Edward Plunkett, an adventurer/grave robber, from a monster that has left him for dead. Oh, it also turns out that she has healing powers, unlike most gypsies who will usually try and sell you some pegs before cursing you. Anyway, as Edward and Koudelka aggressively flirt away while exploring the grounds, they meet a grumpy Irish priest called James O’ Malley. The trio form a fragile alliance to survive the monsters that stalk the abbey and find out why there are more than bats in the belfry. They soon meet up with an old groundskeeper couple, who still run the place like normal despite the owner’s disappearance (they’ve obviously gone ‘coo-coo bananas’) and eventually stumble upon the infamous alchemist, Roger Bacon. It seems that only the rag-tag trio can defeat the abominations created by a tragic past and quell the restless voices in Koudelka’s head...since prescription pills weren’t available at the time.

Despite the familiar gothic tale, Koudelka is a game of two halves; they sit awkwardly side by side on a chair only made for one. There’s a constant battle of acceptance between the survival horror and RPG genres on display. For a majority of the game, players take control of Koudelka in a pre-rendered world full of gothic imagery and visceral horror. Here, you run around searching for key items, ammunition, health and scraps of information. It’s your typical survival horror fare with a period spin, but the world you inhabit is startlingly empty. There’s some memorable art direction, minor lighting animations and sound effects to suggest the world around you is alive; but it’s devoid of enemies. It’s completely devoid of life and this is where the RPG element comes into play.

Every few minutes, Koudelka is warped into chessboard-style arena where her gang of adventurers take part in turn-based battles. Instead of standing around like a lemon though, your turns involve moving the characters around on the board. The battles are more to do with strategic placement than rapidly hitting the attack/magic options. Your enemies will do the same, but neither side can overstep; so nobody can move around to attack from behind. If a character is knocked back a step, then the enemy is allowed encroach further and vice versa. The idea is not have everybody pushed back, side-by-side, to last row; the game won’t end, but the enemy will have the playing field before systematically taking each character down. Players have to take into account the range of their weapons too, since you can only engage the enemy face-to-face or with a gun. It’s a hard fighting system to describe, but it’s pretty easy to pick and play once you see it in motion.



Each character gains experience and levels up like any other RPG. At every level, you can get bonus points to upgrade a certain quality; Koudelka is essentially a low HP healer, Edward is a brawler/swordsman and James is the paladin archetype. The items you find come at a rationing price, incorporating the survival horror element into the limitless power of levelling up. There are a variety of guns to find, but there’s only so much ammo to be found in the entire game. You have to constantly juggle between magic and items in preparation of tougher battles. It’s supposed to give you the sense that while you feel invincible in the RPG aspect, you’re actually walking a fine line when the vital items start running out. Though in reality, it’s never really that dire since the RPG trappings like recharging are always interfering with the survival horror rationale. It only really matters towards the end of the game, but by this point you’ve probably grinded to ridiculous levels, gained powerful magic and collected the most powerful sword in the game.

The game mechanics involved are obviously refreshingly unique, but it also feels like both are missing the key ingredient that makes either of them so special in the first place. The survival horror exploration never captures that terror of the unknown, while the RPG strategy feels somewhat clichéd despite the addition of movement. There’s the usual repetition of random battles, the recycling of forgettable foes and the ‘weak against element’ bosses; nothing you haven’t really seen before. That said, the story holds things together quite well for gothic horror in a RPG world. It’s a mixture of HP Lovecraft and forgotten mythology, with a tragic love story thrown in for good measure. You’ll probably see the game through to the end more for the twists than the initial wonders of the offbeat design.



It’s refreshing to play a bunch of rogues who didn’t really get along with each other too; Koudelka is ultimately using her companions to serve her needs, Edward selfishly wants the abbey’s treasure and James’s bigoted religious views make him the abrasive outsider. They do share some semblance of camaraderie towards the end, but they never truly resolve their differences unlike the usual RPG stories where everybody learns something about themselves and are better for it. The only real flaw seems to be Roger Bacon, a decrepit old monkey skeleton who seems to be competing with actor Sylvester McCoy (The Seventh Doctor from Doctor Who) for the ‘best hammy actor who can roll his r’s to epic proportions’ award. I know many fans of the Shadow Hearts franchise would tell me I’m wrong, but I just don’t think comic relief has ever worked in horror games. Wait, does Shadow Hearts have any fans? A bit of homework for you there.



Oh did I forget to mention that everyone has an American accent?



Even though they’re all British and Irish, everyone has an American drawl. Probably marginally less disconcerting when somebody dubbed the original Forbidden Siren game with a cast of upper class twits who probably went to RADA. Oh well, it’s not like this game will be remembered for anything Oscar worthy. I doubt it’s even that good in any department (other than in my head), which probably goes a long way to explain why it’s not fondly remembered in the ten years since its release. Strangely for a game that spawned a spin-off RPG franchise that successfully went on to be confused with Kingdom Hearts (helpful hint: it’s the one without Disney characters), the actual origins have been lost in time. Anyway, if you haven’t, check out Koudelka someday. It might not be the greatest RPG hybrid out there (yes, yes, we all know about Parasite Eve), but it’s nice to know there are developers willing to experiment out there even if it ends in a failure or two.

Helpful Hint: When encountering gypsies, they will not heal you but they will give you head lice. Oh and don’t go to the local pond since they’ll steal your fishing rods as ‘payment’ for using it. Both are true stories.

We have reached...THE END! Huzzah! As Ray Stantz once said, ‘Well, that wasn’t such a chore now, was it?’

So anyway, hope you enjoy if you can be bothered to read it. I mean, who does anyway? Reading iz stooped and I don’t not know who dumb...or something.

Anyway, the whole idea of this chapter was to bring together all the elements I discussed before and see how they’re put into practice. In the end, I don’t think it came together like I wanted and found the often overlooked idea of Silent Hill 2’s take on the femme fatale. Ideally, I wanted to talk about how the game put the assimilation theory into practice, but I ended up exploring the cinematic tropes instead (since I talked about it already in the previous chapter). I like to think it came out fine, but I wish there less focus on trying to convince the cinema group that videogames share common ideas with films or at least understand what they’re emulating.

Be warned. There are spoilers involved. Remember...quotes...plagiarism...blah blah blah. Anyway, if there’s anything else, let’s walk and talk.

Enjoy!
...
Chapter 3: Silent Hill 2 and the Assimilation of Genre and Interaction (Case Study)

Videogames, like their cinematic counterparts, have genres that inevitably diluted by simulacrum. The lauded innovations are soon followed by second wave ‘clones’. Every so often, there are videogames that either refresh their respective genre or progress towards new ones. Silent Hill 2 is partially in the former in terms of structure; it is after all a sequel to one of the first waves of survival horror. Yet it also manages to be innovative by assimilating cinematic codes into its construction of story and character. The game is a sequel by nature, but the story has very little connection to its predecessor. Instead it uses original’s set-up of an urban ghost town as a backdrop to a cinematic, yet highly interactive, gothic-noir tale.

(Editorial Note: I just recap the plot here, so I’ve left it out for various reasons)

A man whose experience of life has left him sanguine and bitter meets a not-so-innocent woman of similar outlook to whom he is sexually and fatally attracted... which in any event brings about the sometimes metaphoric, but usually literal destruction of the woman... and the protagonist himself. (19)

Silent Hill 2 predominately incorporates the theory of Eastern and Western assimilation of genre, though usually overlooked are the cinematic tropes most commonly found in film noir. In theory, this genre (or style depending on your stance with noir)might appear as if created through accidental or indirect means, since the interactive element provokes investigation by the participant and not solely because of the narrative’s foundations.

While Silent Hill 2 relies on contemporary and gothic horror, the basis of its characters are lifted from noir, especially found in the central roles of James and Maria. The almost suicidal protagonist is plunged into a mystery that is hampered or progressed by the help of a femme fatale. At first, Maria is the exact opposite of Mary in appearance and personality. We, as the active participant, compare the two with Mary’s photo in the inventory and find confirmation later in the form of flashbacks. The photo places emphasis on a plain and homely wife, so when the doppelganger appears, it is not only a shock to James, but to the viewer too. There’s an exact likeness but the withdrawn look is replaced with eroticism. Therefore, noir-like recognition is revealed between the two women – the safety net and the seducer.





Above: 'homely' Mary Sunderland
Below: 'dangerous' Maria.

The material for the film noir heroine is drawn from stereotypes of the femme fatale or evil woman and the good-bad girl, and generally contrasted in film with a marginal figure representing the good woman, worthy of being a wife, and often the victim. (20)

At first, James (though visually distracted) is committed to finding his dead wife and so rebukes any attempts of a connection by Maria. During the search for Laura, Maria’s flirtations diminish as maternal instinct takes over. This leads to a breakdown in the participant’s given perception that she is a temptress; an intentional confusion that is designed cloud judgement between player and protagonist. Silent Hill 2 twists the femme fatale role in such a way that Maria misleads through unconventional means. Our protagonist is slowly being castrated through the confusion between the ideals of spouse and ‘the other woman’. Due to the domineering element of horror, Maria’s ability to change her personality and finally her appearance, result in her role as a destructive femme fatale sharing its identity with that of the kaidan.

Japanese Horror since classical times has revolved around these depictions of beautiful female victims who undergo monstrous transformations when betrayed or threatened. This is particularly true of animated (anime) horror. A number of critics have suggested that in anime these figures represent the sexual fantasies and anxieties of a largely adolescent male audience - a conclusion bolstered by snakes, demonic worms and other phallic transformations. (21)

Maria’s obvious Western appearance and outspoken sexuality is not typical of the kaiden. It is not until she is reunited with James at the hospital, during her maternal phase, that she finally shows signs of being threatened. James, through a throwaway remark, provokes a frightened Maria into verbally attacking his obsession with finding Mary. This attack reinforces her availability that he so desperately needs, but also the questions the participant’s control over the protagonist’s closure.
Maria is killed by the judgemental executioner Red Pyramid Head, but is later resurrected without injury. Her subsequent deaths (she is killed twice more) are punishment for James, a man who is still repressing memories of murder. The Eastern and Western horror assimilation is used to its greatest effect through the personification of Maria. In essence, she is a kaiden, but she is a physical presence that castrates the protagonist through manipulative traits found in the femme fatale.

Frequently the female figure exists as a crucial feature within the dangerous criminal world which the hero struggles with in the course of his investigation, and often as not constitutes the central problem in unravelling the truth. Woman becomes the object of the hero’s investigation. (22)

The most prominent scene that highlights these assimilations between culture, participant and avatar is when James finds the resurrected Maria in a cell. The mis-en-scene is sparse; the only illumination is from an overhead light bulb with twin beds and chairs on either side of the bars suggesting two cells and not one. Stripped of the visceral horror that has preceded this scene, the developers have deliberately made the viewer aware that the most important aspect on display is the unease between the protagonist and the antagonist. It also points out, in theory at least, the narrative core that the participant must base their definitive decisions on.



James sits in silence as Maria’s monologue is presented in two tones – dark and light. The monologue itself is ambiguous and suggestive tones are being used in what seems like common reminiscing. To read between the lines, the use of noir lighting is implemented. When there is a suggestion of a sinister mood, Maria sits in such a way that parts of her body are hidden by darkness, e.g. “I’m not your Mary either!” and “But you forgot about that tape.” The opposite effect happens when she becomes playful since Maria moves into the light and creates an overexposure on her face.

The scene ends with Maria seducing the already mentally exhausted James, who then exits to find another way to reach her. Though the game sets the player off to find another route, the motives for rescue become unclear. The narrative is built upon a multiple ending structure where every minute decision connected to Mary and Maria is creating a natural (and uninformed) ending through those actions. Therefore, we as the participant mirror James’ confused intentions, deciding whether we are rescuing Maria because of eroticism or for something more honourable.

Defined by their sexuality, which is presented as desirable yet dangerous, the women function as an obstacle to the male quest. The hero’s success or not depends on the degree to which they can extricate them himself from the women’s manipulations. Although the man is simply destroyed because he cannot resist women’s lures, often the world of the film is the attempted restoration of order through the exposure and then destruction of the sexual, manipulating women. (24)

The audience participating in survival horror is one of a male majority. In this genre, much like its cinematic counterpart, there is a strong male to overcome the monster and save a female character (even the final girl has help before the final confrontation). The male videogame participant will usually have a scene where they must rescue a female companion. Theoretically, it is an idea that grows from the average adolescent audience’s shy yet highly sexualised personality. Though this may sound stereotypical, evidence can be found within the popularity of dating simulation games and even pseudo-pornographic anime. In Silent Hill 2, the development are aware of this pop culture in their Japanese homeland and intentionally twists the ‘rescue the girl’ scenario into a story about relationship fears.



There is a scene, preceding Maria’s cell, between James and Angela that highlights this theory. Both share a connection through the searching of the dead (Angela is looking for her mother’s tombstone) and a contemplation of suicide. James, however, notes his suicidal behaviour early on as a signal to the player about the allowance of unhealthy risks.

The scene involves James rescuing Angela from a physical monstrosity that she calls ‘Daddy’. The player is quick to respond to the dissociation between the parental title and the deformity onscreen and so injures the creature, resulting in Angela killing it in an act of uncontrollable aggression. We learn of the sexual abuse from her real father that resulted in his murder; all of which is foreshadowed through written narratives. Her mistrust in men is directed at James, mistaking his masculine rescue as a way of getting sexual favours and, like Laura before her, questions his fidelity with Mary. James is quick to point out that he has no ulterior, sexual motive in which the player can relate to. Angela is, in theory, a feminist voice dismayed with the real, almost sexual, nature in which male participants feel heroic in protecting the defenceless female.



The fire that dominates the final scene between James and Angela is real yet symbolic at the same time. Characters throughout the series (and survival horror in general) are judged on their actions. Their nightmares become real through unnatural means, e.g. Harry Mason’s single parenting fears become real in an extreme situation and the participating player sympathises with these primal issues. The fire scene reinforces the idea that James has ‘sinned’ like Angela and Eddie. All three are murderers, though unlike Eddie, who has taken control of his fear through desensitised violence, Angela is constantly tormented for her crime. James suffers a similar metaphorical fate when he, through the player’s reluctant permission, drops down near bottomless pits. While it is disorientating and physically impossible, the subtext draws upon the journey through the unknown self.

For James, the fire is a temporary sight, as the participant has yet to make the final actions that will determine the protagonist’s fate. For example, by looking at Mary’s photo it contributes to a redemptive ending. If Maria is looked after more carefully, the ending parameters veer more towards an ending where she and James escape the town, only for her to show symptoms of his wife’s illness. Unlike other videogames where decision making is signposted or time is frozen, these actions are performed fluently throughout the narrative.

’Know Your Ending’. It’s a classic screenwriting tip, no less valid for computer and videogame authors – and even player to a certain degree (players have to at least know there’s an ending). (25)

While interactivity in videogame narrative can be advantageous, it does present problems when creating a definitive end. Multiple ending structures that give participants a preferred ending and replay value, deny a sense of closure that is found in other media outlets like books and cinema. Repetition allows the screening of all possibilities, but by doing so, the overall arc loses coherency. While this process in Silent Hill 2 reinforces the ambiguities and symbolism, the various outcomes cloud the perception of the truest ending. Given the theory of Eastern and Western horror assimilation and the female castrator, it is most likely James, though gaining redemption by defeating his weakened castrator (a common noir theme) was doomed from the beginning. The recurring theme of loss is prominent throughout and foreshadows the protagonist’s pyritic victory.

Very few videogames, even with survival horror, will allow characters to be defeated. Videogame protagonists, much their cinematic counterparts, have endings where they’re victorious. To have the protagonist killed off cheats a player of their reward, but the Silent Hill series is based around a realist approach to an improbable world. Characters face adult situations and because they’re not the invulnerable kind of hero, they find solutions that may not work out for the best. Theoretically, it is a commentary for a society trying to find ground between traditionalist and modern.

James Sunderland is a protagonist that embodies the confusion between traditional and modern man. He is caught between the faithfulness of marriage vows and singular life. Despite this predicament, he still grants himself a position of authority and thus dictates right and wrong to others. He is the hero and yet he is damaged and naive enough to be presented as the everyman archetype. As the narrative progresses, the idea of heroism degrades the more his motives become muddled. Eddie, though clearly mentally disturbed, clearly has a grasp of his identity and believes in his justifications. It is interesting to note that James and Eddie are physically opposite; the former has a perfectly normal physique while the latter, an antagonist, is overweight with physical faults like unresponsive pupils.





Above: Our intital presumptions of Eddie, due to his childish attitude and oafish appearence, are no different to those who tormented him.
Below: Laura turns out to be the only character that is completely innocent despite our intital suspicions of her.

Silent Hill 2 is one of the few videogames that manages be successfully innovative in its approach to the narrative. It assimilates the Eastern and Western horror tropes through fluid, cinematic interaction while understanding the themes behind the iconography being studied. As a testament to its popularity, the sequel is highly regarded not primarily for the gameplay but for the believable characters and storyline. The theory of Eastern and Western genre and culture assimilation holds weight in this videogame's approach to an artistic, interactive narrative.

Okay, okay...last time I said Part Two would be ready on Wednesday. But I didn’t factor in one of the worst attacks of flu I’ve ever had. Goddamn two-prong attack flu! Just be thankful, I don’t teach! Your grades would be awful due to me!

So in Part One, I lay down the groundwork for survival horror and this idea of perspective assimilation. This time the latest chapter looks at how interaction implements itself into the narrative structure. Basically, this chapter was designed to gauge reactions from my tutors who were reading it from a cinematic viewpoint. I wanted to show them how games created the same narrative as films, but with a completely different approach (be it the limitations of technology or general interaction).

It’s funny, when I listened to that Podtoid with David Jaffe, Anthony Burch's naive and idealist comments reminded me of myself during university...then I realised how jaded and cynical I had become after writing this paper...and cried a little inside.

Anyway...I hope you enjoy this bit too (yes, it’s long, I know...shhh!). Remember I can’t really give out the quote info unless I know you. Plagiarism, huh?! *rolls eyes*

...

Chapter 2: Interaction and Narrative in Videogames (Structure Comparisons)

...the brilliant beginning of Metal Gear Solid 2, with Snake crouching in the rain on the deck of the tanker, leverages Kojima’s well-known postmodern lucidity by allowing in-game characters to refer to button-pressing, and so it teaches you the bases within fiction. Halo, too, makes a welcome gesture towards this kind of solution when the decision of the Y-axis is contextualised as the fiction of fine tuning your Master Chief suit aboard ship. (11)

In Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater (2005), the protagonist, Snake, regularly engages in discussions about cinema with his film-obsessed medic. Topics range from Godzilla and subsequent sci-fi B-movies to James Bond. They also comment on the future of media, hinting at television and videogames (MGS3’s timeline is set in the Sixties). While these moments provide light relief, they also highlight the ability to create post-modern interactivity. For instance, MGS’s game mechanics are presented to the player through dialogue that make such topics as “press the O button to climb the ladder” seem like common practice in its virtual world, regardless of how the realism is presented. Very few narrative games have the ability to achieve this without the use of a training level or on-screen commands, which ultimately detract from the main body of work. Resident Evil 2 (1998) is an exception where it plunges you straight into the metaphorical deep end, assuming (as it is a sequel) that you’ve already accustomed yourself to the original’s controls.

With MGS, post-modern interactivity reaches beyond the playful in-joke that cinema employs it for. It is a tool that is used to ease the player into a complex world. Film uses post-modernism to comment on the real world, create satire and involve an audience using their previous viewing experiences. As mentioned before, videogames share this cinematic trope , but because of the deeper immersion based upon an intensified viewer gaze, it is able to weave interactive elements into the narrative core. MGS3 makes light of this kind of entertainment; writer/director Hideo Kojima is aware of his audience’s tastes as they immerse themselves in his virtual world. His references are confined to genre influences, rather than cultural, so it rarely alienates. This is no different to post-modern cinema; if the references are too varied, the viewer is displaced by a lack of knowledge and snaps out of the immersion. Both cinema and videogames draw the audience into a world where they momentarily push reality into the subconscious.

Snake’s body is more complex and interesting than a regular videogame avatar with a single health bar; it requires more nurturing, and so we come to feel more protective towards it, and by mentally closer to its various travails. This is extended by the brilliant touch in which Snake regains stamina during the times you are not playing the console... A wonderful example of Kojima’s beloved counter-immersive post-modernism, but also very logical way further to entwine the feelings of player and character... Metal Gear Solid 3’s injury system also works to further Kojima’s project of extending the notion of hurt in videogames... So now is the fact that a bullet wound doesn’t just trim a discrete length off the health bar, it goes on causing pain until he does something about it... By appealing to our sense of self-preservation and even fear, Kojima makes a shootout less appealing. (12)

Players control their avatars to a certain degree. Though there are some restrictions (structure, tasks and cutscenes), that’s not to say there is no interaction at all; player participants are more than passive viewers of projected images. Participants take responsibility for their avatar’s well being rather than watching them take pre-scripted changes in welfare, though this is dependent on how scripted the game is, e.g. Shadow of the Colossus ‘s protagonist’s appearance degrades regardless of how he’s handled.

But for MGS3’s injury system, we as participants connect with our avatar through nurture. Not just because we feed Snake to keep up stamina or to treat superficial wounds, but also through separate world goals. Snake, in the virtual world, needs to survive to complete his mission. In the real world, the player’s motivation is to progress to the end credits. Participants are also conditioned through virtual injury to sustain the stealth aspect and believable idea of Snake being a specialist veteran. The onscreen degradation of your character’s health in Resident Evil 2 is another (streamlined) example of virtual communication towards the player’s nurturing objective.

As gamers we bring to each of these characters a set of scripts and semiotic encoding that help us understand who they are, their role and their motivations. These, of course, are specific, and drawn from our own literacies (sic) in other forms of culture whether they be film, comic, novels advertising or whatever. (13)

While videogames offer escapist fantasies with ready-made protagonists, players assimilate their own characteristics into the avatar. The problem is that sometimes, especially with iconic characters like Snake and Sam Fisher, total immersion is near impossible. Our failures as actors create a break in narrative interactivity and subsequent replays can drain the initial tension. While participants add their own persona through controller techniques, the fully developed avatar denies outside personas a chance to shine through. However, by assuming the role of director (already defined and occupied in the credits), it becomes a distraction from the intended progression. The direction and structure are set in place before play begins, much like watching a film.

Survival horror titles give the player avatars that are ordinary people. For characters like James Sunderland and Henry Townshend, we’re given minimal background information for motivation; James has a mystery to solve while Henry is required to escape a predicament. These characters are inexperienced in combat; there’s room for mistakes made by the player, enough so that player remains in possession of the avatar and not the camera.







James and Henry are dishevelled yet ordinary working class protagonists, unlike the chiselled features of the war veteran that is Snake

Both Undying and Resident Evil 3 use written sources, such as letters, journals, faxes and books, planed throughout the games to provide clues and forward the storyline... The deployment of written texts help broaden and consolidate the interactive experience as one significantly different from the way information is imparted in film. (14)

Information is given either briefly through manuals (character backgrounds, interaction, controls, etc.) or mostly in-game. This in-game communication is a post-modern interactive element, making up depth that might be lost through technical limitations. These works of fiction within the narrative work in two ways – to expand on the narrative and mis-en-scene and to assist the player’s progression to the next task. Silent Hill 2 for example, has the player/protagonist relationship discovering a letter containing a bizarre riddle. Upon finding the related puzzle, we find the solution within the riddle’s text. Of course, the clue is written in a gothic manner, keeping in line with the horror that the game’s story represents. Written clues in cinema work to serve the story, usually directed at a protagonist and indirectly to the passive audience. The cinematic protagonist is automated while the videogame protagonist needs to be directed to their next goal. A problem with backing the argument against videogames as an extension of established media is that the games are judged on what they create through on-screen presentation; rarely is the in-game written narrative is explored and dissected.

Another form of in-game information, and one that is featured heavily in the subject of survival horror, is internal character monologues. These are written on-screen texts that are activated when, through a participant’s actions, a protagonist investigates a part of their virtual space. These investigations can bear little consequences to the task at hand, but the character will talk about the interaction in their own personality and by doing so, help bond the player with the avatar through character traits. For example, Forbidden Siren’s characters explore areas previously discovered by others. If two characters find the same object, both will comment on it differently. So while occult hobbyist Kyoya describes in complexity the meaning of a makeshift shrine, ten-year-old Harumi will describe the same shrine in simplistic terms. While the player is controlling two different people with their own personal methods, individuality is reinforced by internal descriptions and monologues. Not only do they give structural information, they also help maintain the symbiotic bond between player and protagonist.

Since this is survival horror, it must be noted that internal written texts are used also because of the situation. Horror protagonists are always under the threat of attack and so stay silent during investigation, but each action is equally important. We need to know what is useful, what is insignificant, etc. To show every action is take control away from the player through cutscenes, while in the virtual world, it would attract your antagonists to unnecessary attention; so internal monologues represent at times a silent voice-over.


Interestingly, for older engines like the original Silent Hill, where character models cannot express complex emotions (the cast are stone faced except during FMV sequences), it helps relieve the technically limited cutscenes’ work of conveying character motivation. In one scene, Harry discusses previous events with the local witch, Dahlia Gillespie. After the scene has ended, we are left with a solitary Harry revealing, through written text, his worries and confusion about this recent meeting. The internal dialogue reinforces the idea that Harry is more than a puppet; he too has motivation and investment. Technically, due to the lack of facial movement, it would be difficult to differentiate between diagetic and non-diagetic dialogue.

Videogames still use this form of written text to get their descriptive hints across to the player and due to complex interaction it is unlikely that this will ever be dropped in favour of a ‘sound and vision’ approach. That’s not to say it hasn’t been experimented with in the past; cinematically influenced games like MGS, Fahrenheit, Ico and to some degree Shadow of the Colossus have all tried to relay information through non-written means.





Fahrenheit and The X Files (1998) both use icons to inform the player instead of text

Though this type of in-game information can only be created from intensive interaction, in cinema, if written information is presented to the viewer, the important aspects are highlighted or even read aloud. Cinema uses other techniques to create atmosphere and structure; it need not rely on extensive writing. Film narrative is constrained by running time, while videogame narrative, even with a set length, still allows participants the ability to progress at preferred paces. So incidentally, videogames have much in common with DVDs, with the ability to play, pause, repeat, etc.
The connection between player and avatar is diminished by the use of a third-person perspective and the game’s heavily managed, shifting and pre-rendered framing. Yet even here there is a less complex pattern of viewpoints than commonly found in film, precisely because the shots are orientated around the avatar. (15)

Narrative based games, like the third person perspectives of survival horror, tend to draw upon cinematic influences to help achieve the discussed player and avatar symbiosis. By drawing upon cinematic gaze and the use of tasks, participants are led through mazes and past obstacles; through this, a bond is created much like the viewer and protagonist in film. So while videogames are becoming cinematic through achieving simulacrum, they also break away from the influence’s narrative restraints in order to obtain the status of credible interactive media.

With film, depending on the genre narrative, the camera’s gaze is fixed on the protagonist, but if needed, will attach itself to supporting characters to expose more details. This switching of perspectives is a natural occurrence that creates narrative progression. By doing so, it also eliminates ‘dead time’ (the idea of on-screen non-progression). In third person videogame genres like survival horror, the virtual camera’s gaze is also attached to the protagonist, even so far as to say an extension, since we can sometimes control it depending on the structured space. Non-pre-rendered games like Silent Hill allow control of the camera surrounding the avatar, while videogames with pre-rendered backdrops (Resident Evil, Obscure and Alone in the Dark) disallow such abilities.

Games are far less likely than films to use ellipses to eliminate ‘dead’ time. Time in games may be spent exploring (without getting anywhere) or interacting with objects that do not have significant bearing on the main tasks. Most films only give screen time to what is deemed essential to the storyline, spectacle or the building of character or mood. (16)

As previously touched upon, ‘dead time’ occurs throughout the minor differences between film and videogame. The most prominent times when we notice this occurrence is when we’re progressing between locations. Videogame examples of large scale ‘dead time’ include Silent Hill and Resident Evil. The former especially has you traversing constantly on foot around many of the town’s abandoned districts.

The 3D horror game Silent Hill is comparatively maze-like: progress is more conditional, and incidents more overtly sequenced. Paths may branch (there is more than one possible ending) but resolution maintains a tidal pull on the player. Silent Hill is a horror game, it aims for intensity, tension and fright, and its ability to generate such effect is fuelled by its more directed gameplay. (17)

At first, the virtual space is daunting since you have entered a fully rendered town. However, there will always be a linear path despite the way the player progresses, either by curious exploration or non-linear puzzle solving. So even for the most complex structure, the foundation is formed from basic task completion and pre-determined linearity. It’s not enough for a videogame to create physical antagonists. To make compelling diversity, there has to be puzzle solving to stem the progressive pacing and to keep the challenge entertaining. These tasks are usually evolved from the basic ‘find the key to the locked door’ scenario. Due to the real-time interaction between player and avatar, gameplay is not bound by time restrictions, nor do they play a major role in cinematic events.

Film relies on the removal of ‘dead time’; so, dependant on genre, anything non-progressive or non-structural is removed. The timelines are condensed, therefore superfluous actions are reduced. With videogames, the participant decides on the amount of interaction they want within the narrative structure. In survival horror, the completion of tasks is dependent on detailed explorations; there is no progression unless the requirements have been satisfied. However, to keep up the tension, participants are tricked into exploring at the intended pace.

Silent Hill has a rich and varied soundtrack, but contains no music in a major key. In fact, the ‘safe state’ is not present in the same sense, so the music never settles on or even moves toward any kind of resolution... They must sustain a consistent and persuasive of terror and apprehension in the player. (18)

Silent Hill keeps the player unnerved of their surroundings, either by claustrophobic gaze, location, sounds or virtual threat. From an entertainment point of view, these elements create a believable horror story, but from a structural point of view, the same elements are used to keep the participant moving at a consistent pace. While this doesn’t eliminate ‘dead time’, the exploratory aspect in cinematic videogames is reduced to fleeting appraisals. Role Playing Games encourage exploration due to the epic scope of narrative, while survival horror keeps the narrative timeline to the equivalent of a mini-series (due to cinematic influences). Therefore, the interactive element remains intact without stretching its own cinematic running time. Not only does this reinforcement encourage steady progression but it also, in theory at least, suppresses the participant’s ability to deconstruct the gameplay.

So while videogames can be described as richer in detail and interaction, cinematic techniques are still their foundation. Cinematic restrictions can be built upon, either for quicker or slower purposes. The more detail shown however, the more risk there is for the narrative to lose focus. There are positives and negatives to these different approaches to media, but the subject here is to reveal how videogames overcome restrictions imposed by their influences and thus presenting itself at a level of acceptance.

In my final year of university in 2006, I had the dubious honour of having to write a ten thousand word dissertation on a subject of my choice. Naturally, being a film student who was actually quite bored of writing about films, I decided to look at the way interactive media was emulating cinema. I used my favourite genre, survival horror, as my best example since it best merged cinematic storytelling with your basic gaming mechanics. I have to admit, the more I wrote on the subject, the less I became enamoured and supportive of developers who pushed the medium into ‘mature’ realms. The idea of games emulating movies became a moot point as the evidence of developers’ limitations became more apparent (they are after all ‘developers’ and not ‘film makers’). That said, as I looked at the way the Eastern view of Western horror became more than a perspective and eventually an assimilation, I found that videogames could essentially create new visual sub-genres that pave the way for serious interpretations and media acceptance.

Anyway, these are excerpts from that paper that I’ve had trouble getting published over the years because I’m not exactly high in academic pecking order. If you need to know where the quotes are from, I’ll let you know through PM and only if I know you well enough. Sorry, but I’d like to avoid plagiarism for both sides (I don’t want anybody to steal from me and I don’t want to see people get caught for something they could easily theorise on their own...which is what happened to at least five classmates originally...naughty).

This opening chapter might seem dull (hell, it probably is) but it lays the groundwork for the next part and the case study later on. So enjoy (if you have the time!), the next part is either tomorrow or Wednesday.

...

Chapter 1: The Eastern/Western Horror Assimilation (Survival Horror Foundations)

At the Game Developer’s Conference last week, Akira Yamaoka gave a presentation about how the atmosphere in the Silent Hill series was constructed...Yamaoka called Silent Hill “American Horror through Japanese eyes,” and explained that he had set out to make a Japanese-style American horror game.” (4)

Survival Horror is one of the few videogame genres that focuses heavily on character, location, mis-en-scene, plot development and other associated cinematic traits. Below is simplified list of comparisons used by Yamaoka in his lecture. (Editorial note: originally, the two lists were side by side, but I can’t make that happen in the blogs)

Western Horror

Physical
Instant Scares
Onscreen Presence
World View
Modern

Eastern Horror

Spiritual
Build Up
Unseen
Domestic
Traditional

From this small example, we can see that the views on horror are nearly polar opposites. Though, as always, there can be exceptions to the rule when needed. While American horror tends to play on physical presence, be it physical or ‘body horror’, Japanese (or J-Horror) tends to focus on unseen, spiritual, menace. But, obvious tropes generated by the recent J-Horror exposure aside, the difference between the two run much deeper; involving tradition and history.

Western Horror

He (Tudor) finds psychoanalytic accounts to be ‘inordinately reductive’ in as much as they presuppose the credibility of a particular outlook to which the widest possible range of cultural phenomena are to be subordinated. (5)

With Western horror, there is a tendency to explain everything within the plot structure. With that approach, the genre loses its mystery and confusion; both being primary generators of terror. We, the viewer, become less terrified through the awareness of facts. If used effectively, the lack of information steers us away from anti-climaxes and tension release associated with the final reel of horror films. The recent Western horror remakes are a prime example of this inherent fault, e.g. the remake of Ringu (1998). This however is not a direct criticism, since the remake purposefully reunites an estranged couple who are bonded by horrific events. As it stands, the ideology of family in US horror is a symbol of strength against an outside force (which is the opposite of the original film’s social commentary on broken families under stress).

But while Western horror does optimistically give the viewer an abundance of information, it also offers analytical viewpoints. Its main concern is with the physical, relentless presence and the objective to antagonise the vulnerable. They’re either discoveries of the unknown that seek to destroy us (e.g. HP Lovecraft’s dormant Old Ones) because we’re minor obstacles in the way of their ultimate goals or because, like Frankenstein’s monster, they’re shunned by a society that created them. Either way, the threat is physical and within our realist realm. The presence’s antagonism can be seen as a destructive goal for our ‘human’ protagonists. Unlike J-Horror, the West treats these threats as unknown variables that need to be examined, compartmentalised and eventually conquered.

The unstoppable, physical, presence with simple or no motive for its destructive actions will always primarily attempt to strike fear into the viewer. The idea that we cannot delay the inevitable is a frightening prospect, but Western horror tends to revel in the gore when it comes to terrifying the audience. It can be theorised that a sort of residual formula leftover from the early Eighties’ extremes of ‘video nasties’ and their subtext commentary on social issues at the time.

Neale argues that the fascination with the cinematic image itself derives from its play and absence – we know that the events and figures we see on screen are not really there, yet we believe we grasp them as though in some way they were more than real life. (6)

While the resultant death is baptised in gory effects, we as an audience know we’re safe; our conscious mind telling us that it’s not and what we see is a projection. Western horror deaths are always imaginative spectacles and rarely realistic. It can be seen as the unrestrained release of psychological tension. The victim is violently ‘penetrated’ and yet we feel real sympathy through repeated desensitisation of previous imagery. Ultimately, we know that tension has to rebuild momentum after an attack; it’s an idea that’s usually discarded when developers approach horror in their games.

As a brief side note, there’s also an actual invasion of the body when death occurs. The vulnerable barrier between normality and foreign is violently broken. Therefore, Western horror (especially when combined with early Martian/Communist sci-fi comparisons) can be seen not just as the penetration of the male body, but also the need to dominate foreign threats before ‘they’ can forcefully infiltrate inner sanctity.

Eastern Horror

Prominent features associated with the woman as an ’avenging spirit’ include long black hair and wide staring eyes (or in some instances, just a single eye), as long black hair is symbolic of feminine beauty and sensuality, and the image of the gazing female eye (or eyes) is frequently associated with vaginal imagery. (7)

The most easily recognisable and prominent icon of Eastern horror is the vengeful female spirit with her features masked by her long hair. Made popular by the film adaptation of Ringu and Ju-On: The Grudge (2000), the idea of the vengeful spirit dates further back to Noh and Kabuki theatre. The face concealed by hair was itself a type of mask often employed by an actor to show a change from a human female to a kaidan (vengeful spirit). Even from this early display of theatrics, Eastern horror starts to separate and differ from the West; grounding itself in myth and tradition, only to eventually run a parallel discourse on modern society.

While spirits are shown on-screen, they’re rarely an actual physical threat in the same manner as other movie creatures. The spirit of Sadako (from Ringu) kills by inflicting absolute terror on her victims rather than physically harm them. She’s the ethereal bounded by projectionist technology, hence her ability to crossover and yet inability to inflict real pain, e.g. the climatic death scene.

The vengeful spirit is female; a male castrator similar to the femme fatale of film noir. Usually, there’s a transformation or onnen (a grudge through violent means) that’s triggered by betrayal. This stems from a man’s weakness through the fear of female sexuality and the un-tapped dominance women gain from such vulnerability (despite the assumption of patriarchal control).

Images of out-of-control madness, bloodshed and mass destruction are often connected quite blatantly by Japanese horror with corporate capitalism’s assault on the very institutions and values its superstructure holds dear; the home, the family, the community, the sanctity of individual life. While there is nothing especially ironic about the phenomenon, Japanese horror cinema’s graphic portrayal of patriarchal capitalism’s rampage is especially compelling within society that has held sacred some positive, now rather residual, traditions. (8)

While Western horror tends to comment on effecting world views, Eastern horror frequently turns its perspective on its own domesticity and it has become increasingly strained under post-war, capitalist advancement. What was originally a traditionalist nation, Japan now focuses on the ideals of economic and technological advancement, abandoning the unity of pre-war Imperialism in favour of modernism and disposability. This swift change of direction from an important event affects society as a whole, with an eventual chain-reaction from government to domestic life.

Eastern horror, most specifically the Japanese element, takes the Kabuki theatre iconography of vengeful castrators and places them, as representations of females, in the domestic arena. Again, Ringu is strong example of vengeance spreading out in society because of the failure of destroying the original perpetrator – a man.

If the object of revenge does not, properly speaking, deserve to be punished, is it even appropriate to use the term ‘revenge’ in the first place? What exactly is the sense of social justice that is being reinstated...? (9)

Kaiden represent the female victim’s vain attempts to strike out at the increasing number of threatened patriarchs. Their seemingly random take on ‘policing’ can also be seen as the justice system’s futility in detecting what is essentially a criminal without obvious stereotyping. Characters that are in law enforcement are never seen as authority figures; their profession is always inconsequential to the story, and so it is left to the dominant antagonist spirit to enforce the rules (hence why its appearance is more representative as a whole system rather than the supporting investigative cast).

Capitalist advancement and post-industrialism in the Eastern horror’s perspective is the real terror to society; the disposing of the old ways in favour of the efficient modern future. Breakthroughs in modern technology are made at the cost of identity, e.g. franchise over independence. Japan has lost some of its original identity of rural orientated agriculture and replaced them with expanding world markets. So it redeems itself, financially, by creating a consumption-obsessed society whose ties with tradition are eroding. The kaiden is considered terrifying because the city dwelling protagonists involved are brought up with a lack of traditional folklore knowledge. Their lack of information is what eventually primes them (and the audience) for horror.

While Eastern and Western horror tropes are fundamentally separate, it doesn’t necessarily mean that they do not share the usual genre iconography when required, e.g. body horror, physical manifestations, etc. Horror is universal; it’s there to give us a primal shot of adrenaline that’s eradicated from modern society, to make you question the unknown and to ultimately tell a distorted parable. Videogames are learning to be more like cinematic stories too, amidst the restrictive insistence to create disposable titles. Their interactivity, by use of control pads, is merely an extension that, once mastered, can allow the participant to freely interpret the text in own way.

Survival Horror

Survival Horror was a term first coined in the Japanese game, Resident Evil (1996) . Derived from a bad English translation of introductory text (“You have entered the world of survival horror...”), game journalists used the term to describe videogames latest genre. Though it can be argued that Alone in the Dark (1994) was an earlier innovator, the Playstation was a commercial phenomenon and so Resident Evil reached a wider audience. More so than most games, survival horror titles rely on realism as a foundation. While the stories themselves may be fantastical, the idea of near invulnerability is dropped in favour of creating tension associated with cinematic horror.

The survival horror template defined by Resident Evil relies on keeping the player on a knife-edge between success and failure. It communicates vulnerability by limiting your ammunition and rationing your health – refusing you buffers that most games let you build up... As an approach, it’s strengthened by the way it contradicts everything gaming has taught you: games are the place where you are strong, where you are the hero. (10)

Action games are no different to the cinematic action blockbuster. Both have near-invulnerable characters, inevitable explosive set-pieces and, plots designed to link large scale set-pieces. In videogames, a quick plot exposition draws you in; a piece of escapism fantasy where you are the lead hero. Survival Horror is successful because it’s the opposite; ultimately, you’re not doing anything heroic. Your main goal is self preservation; while you’re in control of your avatar’s actions, you’re never in control of the predicament. For example, SOS: The Final Escape (2003) places you in an earthquake aftermath with a companion who, depending on your actions, might live or die. You can be a personal hero, but you can’t change the overall situation.

Survival Horror doesn’t have to be about fantasy horror; it can be solely realist too. But what makes this genre different to others in the medium is that the stories assimilate Western and Eastern cultures. The eye is clearly Japanese, yet its perspective is fixed on American culture. Videogame genres have the ability to look at new ground and survival horror has shown, accidentally or purposefully, that cinematic horror can be refreshed and reappraised without simulacrum.

It is usually Japanese developers that create survival horror titles, yet with location and character, the B-movie inspired stories are set in American towns and cities, e.g. Silent Hill’s eponymous resort town, Resident Evil’s Raccoon City, etc. The post-industrial landscape of Raccoon City is the setting for a viral outbreak which was, not ironically, genetically engineered by an American branch of a pharmaceutical company. The town of Silent Hill is a forgotten, run down, lakeside tourist resort. The background story reveals that its misfortune is the result of the older residents’s refusal to modernise with the help of capitalist investors. The recurring theme of Western towns collapsing under uncontrollable advancement is from a Japanese perspective. Again, like cinematic J-Horror, it sees America as an instigator of capitalist advancement, with its quick growth breaking down social infrastructures.

There are exceptions when the location is reversed however. Forbidden Siren (2003) is set in Japan, but more specifically it’s set in a traditional fishing village that was lost after an earthquake. The traditional aspects no longer fit in the with the modern protagonist’s views; only characters willing to embrace and learn the old culture survive their ordeal. The Shibito are physical, unstoppable presences but carry a Japanese heritage. So here we have an example of how culture assimilation works both ways; Western monsters with Eastern backgrounds and for other games in the genre, vice versa (be it by accident or necessity).



Leon navigates the capitalist nightmare of Raccoon City



The Shibito villagers use the agricultural tools of the trade to kill the trapped survivors

While cinematic horror can tell such a story without much antagonism on display, videogames need to have such obstacles due to their deepened interactivity. For example, Silent Hill 2’s central plot revolves around James Sunderland’s solitary search for his supposedly dead wife, Mary, in Silent Hill and his involvement with a physical kaiden named Maria. As an interactive story, the player needs to be constantly involved and challenged since wandering around an empty town would be deemed laborious. Therefore creatures are added to the scenario. Their physical presences, especially the invincible Red Pyramid Heads, are there to induce fear to the spectators, cause bodily harm to James and thus punishing both simultaneously.



James fends off the Red Pyramid Head’s advances. This sequence however, the player is actively participating rather than passively watching a cutscene.

Creatures are a necessity in survival horror; it is what creates the gaming aspect. They’re the challengers of survival and progress. Again, we know that they’re not real, but because we increase our input into the protagonists and imprint our personalities to a certain degree, we have a greater need to keep see them stay alive. Technically, we also keep them alive for our own personal progress; a game’s underlining objective is for us, the player, to complete it. So the theory of assimilating physical monsters with a traditional storyline may have been created indirectly, but this doesn’t mean it’s an avenue that is passed over during examination.

As mentioned in the Western horror section of this chapter, we sometimes care little for characters being killed off as we have a selection of protagonists (including the final girl), to carry the story on from their perspective. With survival horror, as well as FPS games, the narrative structure relies on just one character – the player’s avatar. Without the protagonist, the game ceases to move forward, hence “Game Over”. In any of the Silent Hill games, the story is solely from the protagonist’s perspective; the NPC’s actions are rarely seen outside the player’s restrictive viewpoint. One of the few exceptions that follow cinematic rule is Forbidden Siren, where the shattered timeline narrative shifts between eight major perspectives.

Our connection with the protagonists/avatars is built up quicker than in film due to our intensive gaze over a longer period of screen time. Of course, we need this character to progress the story, but without proper investment, we can lose interest. Without the right development, we find ourselves taking up the same view of what this paper is arguing against. When it’s done correctly, as we’ll see in the later case study, games can create memorable adult characters that transcend the cartoon forms of Sonic The Hedgehog, Kirby, Dizzy, Mario and Luigi, etc.

When I was a film student, I had to sit through this awful movie made by some absolute douchebag. It involved a near future where the British Police Force upheld the law through fascist and deadly means. Quite clearly, it was made by a man who had watched V For Vendetta the previous week and instead of actually understanding that it was about Thatcherism, he thought the UK would turn into a Cuban dictatorship by 2015. This irked me somewhat since before going to university I worked for several police stations. Now, I’m not someone who embraces the police (God knows I’ve seen enough idiocy to make me dislike them), but I found this student film to be a badly researched waste of everyone’s time and told him out loud in class that his depiction of a trigger happy UK police was offensive.

But I am a hypocrite.

Because I really loved G-Police. This was a game where the cops are under corporate government rule and are ordered to ‘blow shit up’ on a regular basis using an assortment of military vehicles and enough firepower to level a city. In this world, you better pay that parking fine, or you’ll be locking lips with an IR missile the next time you take the kids to school.

G-Police



G-Police was a dark game; it was absolutely grim and relentlessly dour throughout. You were an underfunded asset in a Blade Runner-esque world where corporations ruled and your job was to primarily babysit for them. From the opening eleven minute FMV, the game purged all semblance of joy from your system. The moment you’d have fun in this game, was the moment it ramped the difficulty up to nightmare proportions. But for all the nerve wracking tension, the game was an underrated beast to play.

In the future, humans have left the wastes of Earth and colonised moons around the solar system. After a fierce war that depletes humanity’s resources, the government (now just a handful of conglomerates) set up the G-Police in order to maintain stability on the colonies. The real money is in mining, but crime is at an all time high because of its illegal dealings. An ex-military pilot, Slater, receives word that his sister, an idealistic G-Police officer, crashed her Havoc Gunship into a control tower and has died. He doesn’t believe that she committed suicide, so he takes a trip to the Jupiter moon of Callisto and joins the G-Police to discover the real reason behind her death. In the meantime, Slater has to patrol the giant domes and police the streets. Eventually, an all-out war erupts between the Krakov and Nanosoft corporations and Slater finds it’s somehow connected to his sister’s death.

The game puts you in control of a Havoc Gunship; a sort of police Apache helicopter without rotors or Airwolf without the speeded up stock footage. It can do just about anything a futuristic helicopter can do and it’s pretty complex to get the hang of. If you don’t play the tutorial at least twice, then things can get ugly since this is a game that really relies on you being able to fly like a pro helicopter pilot (with bells and whistles). You have to target and scan enemies, lock on to their signal and use the best, limited, weapon from your load-out. It makes for realistic feel in a sci-fi setting. The first few levels ease you into the thick of things, so by the time you’re ready, you’ll be under pressure, but you won’t be panicking and acting like some damned rookie.



The missions are really what made the game back in the day. This wasn’t some relentless shoot-em-up. You were asked to just scan suspicious crates and blimps, stop gang activity, defend vital buildings, put on escort missions and the like. As the story increasingly pushed towards inevitable corporate war, the missions become more about bombing runs, Intel collection and stopping weapons reach their destructive destinations. It was all about the tension. The most memorable moments were the subtle ones like, flying through dome jump-gates to reach a target and just waiting for the enemy to strike. There was a lot variety on display here and the whole things oozed atmosphere, from the FMV and wingman banter to the futuristic city domes that all had their own personality (industrial, residential, inner city, mining, etc). The domes felt alive, with the little hover cars flying around and the traffic on the ground. Quite clearly they stole everything from Blade Runner’s version of LA, bar the art deco. With you policing the streets with your fellow G-Police officers, it was what the movie Outland (also set on a mining colony) should have been like. But all that tainted beauty came with a price...

The draw distance.

Psygnosis really pushed the limits of the PSone back in the day, but G-Police was simply too much for the console. The game suffered for its art; everything about six feet in front of you was pitch black and full of polygon pop-ups. Battles could get confusing and difficult since you had to get in close to the enemy; getting in close meant you were dead-meat, but from the pitch black, they could spot you since draw distance meant nothing to the AI. It was a tad unfair to say the least, hence the heavy reliance of lock-on and the radar. In the options, you could increase with the draw distance, but doing so would slow the game down. It was obvious from this little addition that Psygnosis really wanted you to see the game as they originally intended.

My tip is to play this game on the PS2. You can increase the draw distance without sacrificing the game speed. This is why I loved the backwards compatibility, it made all your old games run faster (so long, Resident Evil stairs).

Anyway, G-Police was a tough cookie but once you really pushed yourself to complete an extremely difficult moment it felt like you had become a better player overall. That was your reward at the end of the day. You got your thrills from tactically outsmarting the enemy in dogfights and by being immersed in the atmospheric plot. It’s a rarity to find a game that balances these attributes and integrates an intriguing story into a game that could just as easily gone without one. You could say it was the Tie Fighter of PSone games.

G-Police: Weapons of Justice



G-Police did well enough to warrant a sequel, but so many things went wrong that the franchise ended after this title. I suspect most people who bought the original was put off by the difficulty spikes and handling of the gunship, so they never bothered with the sequel. I also think it has something to do with Psygnosis having money troubles at the time.

I’ll be blunt here, Weapons of Justice feels kind of rushed. The missions feel shorter and there are less of those atmospheric FMV sequences around. The story is weak and doesn’t really go anywhere (it’s a rehash of the original but this time with the Marines as the bad guys). Graphically, it’s too busy and it suffers the same draw distance issues again.

The story is set just after the original, with the G-Police in strung out shape after the Nanosoft war. They’re finally able to ask for reinforcements after communications were blocked by their orbit of Jupiter and the military answer the call. Commander Grice and his Marines help out with Callisto’s gang problem, but suddenly turn on the G-Police when it’s revealed they’ve only come for Nanosoft’s advanced weaponry. Slater, now a veteran pilot who’s accepted his role as a G-Police officer, leads several daring missions to take back control of Grice’s martial law and stop him before he uses the technology to start another war off-world.

The sequel went out of its way to create more variety in a bunch of missions that were rehashed from the original. You felt less like a cop on the job and more of a guerrilla tactician in a series of relentless action set-pieces. To aid you were several new vehicles; there was the Rhino (an APC that was rarely used), the Raptor (a bi-pedal walking tank with jump abilities) and the Corsair (a spaceship designed for off-world combat). Again, you were flying around in the Havoc Gunship and its upgraded version called the Venom. The new vehicles felt weak when compared to the gunships. They were restrictive ground vehicles involved in missions where you could just as easily fly around and bomb the hell out of your enemies. It wasn’t a case of thinking tactically in a new way either; you usually endorsed the same aerial hit-and-run tactics as before, only this time you were on the ground. The Corsair was different, since this was space combat and you were no longer limited by the gunship’s capabilities or the colony’s domes. But ultimately, its appearance was too little too late (at least it does give you one epic battle at the end). For some reason the controls on the gunship were changed...for the worse. I think it was so all the vehicles followed a similar control pattern instead of the player having to re-learn everything again and again. It felt clunky and I’m not a fan, but you do eventually get used to it. Graphically, the obligatory overhaul was in effect.



Weapons of Justice implemented more colour in Callisto’s world. More gas towers shooting flames, more vehicles driving around, more sickly neon lighting and more buildings for you to navigate. But all that came at a price again. Yep, the draw distance issues were back. Psygnosis decided to put up this blur effect to countermeasure the poor draw distance and personally, while everything is graphically improved, the smeared visuals spoil all the detail. I bet Diesel was pissed when their beloved in-game logo adverts were hard to read. Even though the details have been improved, a lot of the story is played out through real time; which is awful considering the characters are blurry polygon men and everything is played out by faceless people talking from behind blacked out windshield of a gunship. I suspect Psygnosis really didn’t have the time or money to really make expensive FMVs, so they just bookended the story with them and cheaply made real-time cutscenes instead.

For all the harsh words I have about it, Weapons of Justice is still a fun game. You’re still employing a thinking man’s approach and tactically picking your targets and destroying them through various means. The only real problem I have with it is that it’s just too familiar and the improvements aren’t really a large evolutionary step. By all rights, it should have knocked the original out of the ballpark, but it comes across as an afterthought; the story is merely an epilogue with an ending that suggest there was to be a third game.

And yes, there was supposed to be a third G-Police story, presumably on the PS2, but it never materialised and Psygnosis went bust. It’s a shame because G-Police had the makings of an amazing franchise. It was way ahead of its time because it successfully merged tense tactical dogfights with story that was more interested in characters than the action. You really felt like a cog in a greasy futuristic machine world that didn’t care much for your presence; not once do the civilians and miners have a major impact on the story (other than secondary objectives), this is all about working for ‘the man’ and survival of the fittest.



G-Police made a reappearance on PSN a few years back, but I don’t think it particularly made any resurgent waves., probably because it looks really dated and a little bit odd. It really was one of the first few ‘adult’ console games that didn’t treat the player like an idiot, nor did it confuse the meaning of ‘mature’ with ‘must swear a lot’. The gameplay for both games still holds up today. Not bad for a series that’s over ten years old now. It’s a franchise that needs to be reappraised since it helped define the PSone’s target audience.

Yeah, this was something else.

This was G-Police.

This, on the other hand, was Airwolf...