Fairytale heroes can save princesses but they can also save giant robots. In fairytales, some characters are archetypes, but they fit so well in a story about friendship, choice and a zap of politics that you almost don’t see the cliche fraying at the edge.

Sometimes the hero only wants a cool toy to play with and sometimes the toy is a giant robot. Better, the new friend is a swift learner capable of empathy and anger. The robot is an archetype, an iron giant attuned to empathy which might as well be a teddy bear. (With access to civilization-ending weapons.)

In The Iron Giant, friendship endures regardless of species. A kid playing with a puppy will try to teach it basic actions and tricks, and the iron puppy responds as well as its towering arms and growling mouth can.

Like its titular metal friend, the movie has heart. It’s made of patched familiar elements: the single mom and the outcast son, the friendly (metal) stranger, the handsome bachelor, the pesky intruder dressed in unwelcome authority.

A large chamber of this beating heart glows with the giant’s simplicity. The robot becomes sad when hunters shoot a deer and mourns over loss of life which to humans may be trite.

The robot’s openness to humane emotions may be sudden and simplistic, but fairytales thrive on emotional simplicity and their wisdom derives from expanding such traits without complex debates.

The young hero is the one to recognize how the stranger is capable of understanding in spite of its original programming. This does not evade the danger of said programming, as the giant turns into its original violent form when attacked, but fairytale tensions remains low because the stranger has proven itself, indeed, for all intents and purposes, and we are simply waiting for the victory of friendship over enmity.

The movie is kid-friendly in its idealism which prevents destruction through understanding. A lot of stumbling and breaking are afoot, uncertainty about nature and nurture, striving to understand the strange creature and collective survival instincts stepping in to oppose it.

If The Iron Giant hearkens to Superman and similar adventures it’s because it’s just about the same trope with adjusted variables and this story is a comfortable retelling of some Superman comics, or vice versa.

The alien is one of two protagonists but Clark and the robot find themselves in similar contexts. Both are capable of vengeance but work to protect the innocent, both are aliens who see humanity as their own kind.

The Iron Giant is also a playful meditation on the classic Atomic Age, where fear of war may have been a daily occurrence and the space age poked its shiny technological head to signal both hope and tension. In a time of dwindling peace, governments and corporate giants are springs of both security and distrust, needing to reassure the people while never revealing their secrets.

The surreptitious nature of mega-institutions never fades completely, yet the atomic age holds a romance of its own, likely because of the excitement and anxiety brought by new tech development, the possibility to create unimaginable riches but also to raze the planet.

The story plays with this paranoia by making the government rep an unpleasant fellow and self-appointed enemy of the strange creature. Though the stranger manifests the will to adjust its nature and be friendly, the establishment acts with impunity and violence. All natural, as response and as villain.

‘Souls don’t die.’

The defining quote of this friendship adventure. And the soul is gained through empathy, understanding and choice. The choice may be more or less conscious - as stories about thinking machines go, to choose empathy seems to be a glitch for the robot, and a natural impulse for Hogarth the young hero. The villain will not or cannot make said choice possibly because of natural inclination or refusal to understand the stranger.

As a good fairytale ending, wisdom is available to all by the end, potentially changing the villain. Regardless of form, if something aspires to understanding, to friendship, to good, it enriches itself with the experience of a soul which may be perennial.

Lost in Starlight (LIS) is an over-sweetened love story and a mushy first act to bear. It’s quirky but falling in love and lapsing in a partial loss of logic also is. A sugary series of events, more or less predictable, where people dance around each other to navigate fiery emotions.

Wholesome level: Sugar and spice in a bumpy romantic tale which includes a bit of stalking, clinginess and wholesome redemption.

There’s a space-time for excessively-sweet romance, but sometimes the sugar content is high enough that it makes you unwell. Romance is often made out of exaggeration, but if feelings are not peppered with maturity they turn out hurtful.

Jay, one half of the romance, may be annoying on purpose to underline the clingy aspects of people adamant about a relationship. But when a character is annoying by intent he remains so for as long as the writers need him to, which may be too much.

When one Mars astronaut complains about Jay’s song being played endlessly, that’s how the pulpy musings between lovers feel - the high highs and mushy lows of a couple you know and who you hope would evolve past the drama, at east occasionally.

If 5 Centimeters per Second was a realist buildup to the anxiety of romance - whether to complete or lose it - LIS moves fast and sweet to unite its lovers. 5CPM dealt with love lost in a factual manner, but more elegantly by not over-bearing the mood with endless arguments between the protagonists. It exaggerated their feelings through metaphor and reaction, with less appeal to explicit exposition. LIS goes the opposite way - it’s excessive and explicit but intentional.

Fans of Interstellar will recognize this approach to the question of enduring love through physical distance. A similar materialist attitude toward love phased into the realm of speculative sci-fantasy and romance, where the connection endures as if transformed into universal law.

It’s a shifty endeavor to look for moral teachings in stories like LIS, because you might end up thinking following your dreams is nonsensical. Nan-young, the other half of the romance, becomes an astronaut to follow her mother and her passion, an event negated by a pointless accident. While the trauma happens, she seems to argue in favor of safety contrary to initiative, though at the same time she wants Jay to persist singing with his beautiful voice.

The romance is a roller-coaster of emotions and events, mostly because of Jay. Both the story and clingy lover find redemption by the end: Jay matures through his obsessions to become a caring partner; the story bumps a few cliches to reach an elusive happy-end.

As with romantic literature and Anime, there is a public waiting exactly for this - raw feelings released without filter, though not always for the betterment of the people involved. The pleasure of a sugary experience is the same regardless of medium - once in a while, we desire the simple release of a romantic story while joining the lovers for the ride, bumps and all.

With so much drama, it’s easy to forget that Lost in Starlight has merits beyond its raw feelings.

It’s visually beautiful, oozing urban idealism with a city half-modern half-visionary, rainbow hues and colorful gradients to reflect the ideal state of an ever-renewed love. It’s encouraging to see an Anime where the city of the future is a pleasant living space and not a decrepit soul-pestering simulacrum.

In 5CPM it was mostly nature supplying the backdrop for metaphor and romantic anxiety; LIS draws up a near-future city, not utopia but close enough to be relatable and desirable.

To build its romantic spirit, LIS connects plot with musical sections. Stylized musical beats - the kind which could be trailers in themselves - move the lovers through their relationship or reveal moments from their past. Music beats in a pseudo-musical may be a cheat to advance the plot or soften the viewer, but they’re effective and fit romantic stories.

Another kicker is how LIS uses the in-world tech of its future to connect the lovers. Augmented reality - the creation of a digital or real space around a person - has uses beyond getting people closer. LIS understands the emotional kick when it makes Jay and Nan-young speak face to face, take a walk through the space garden, brush their teeth together through the growing physical distance. A minor detail nested inside a music beat to keep the lovers in touch, digital but effective.

Ghost in the Shell feels like futurist Renaissance. The title intro sequence shows the creation of the self-aware cyborg - first, engineer her mind then shape her body in graceful transitions. Plus the classic anime fixation on her breasts.

A moving sketch devised by Renaissance painters and engineers, a sequence of stylized concepts about how the 1990s would imagine the creation of the cyborg. It’s intriguing and unsettling, the human body reconstructed from the inside-out, stronger and sexually pleasant.

Wholesome level: Dependent on how you enjoy cyborgs. Good if you want entities capable of empathy to gain self-awareness.

The moment of ‘coming back to life’ after the intro is one of distance and potential loneliness: Motoko wakes up in the dark cocoon of her room, contrasted against the light which envelops the city. (Funnily enough, the visual portrayal implies she needs no shower before dressing up, but this may be a case of brevity in visual design.)

We may think the urban glow provides safety, a benevolent newness for the loneliness of the newly-minted life, but this is cyberpunk. The city is a vertical and horizontal labyrinth, an oppressive structure of concrete, steel, poor neighborhoods and market encampments adorned with varicolored ads.

As all good fantasy, the city of the nigh-dystopia if a character itself, beautified with the mix of traditional culture and futurist interpretation carried on the transportation means of the present. In cyberpunk the city is rarely a space for healing, but Motoko moves through it in body and mind to achieve greater freedom.

*

Cyborg is as cyborg does so GITS spends a long while to shape Motoko into a technology-enhanced martial-arts cop driven by reasoning. She is tactically-smart, her body is designed with ports for direct connection with the information matrix of the police. More expansive than ours, her mind becomes the city, able to access its labyrinth and secrets at will.

It’s after the somewhat long-winded action-blast that GITS becomes itself. It asks questions which, easy to see, will become relevant for Motoko: birth origin, memories of loved ones, childhood. Major’s ‘Do you even know who you are?’ rings true because memories and experience comprise our identity, and the thought of living without memories - at least innocent ones like childhood - may induce existential dread.

This is a future where humans can be hacked. The parallel between computers or storage devices and the human mind is old in modern media. But in the age of information it’s more palatable with the advent of neural interfaces between the brain and various gadgets.

A character finds out his recent memories have been programmed into his mind. ‘But that can’t be’ is the natural response, as realizing your memories are false is like waking up in a nightmare, possibly void of identity.

Questions follow: the reality of memories and the experience they carry, how they shape who we are, how much our experience is formed by physical processes in the brain. Like humans, the cyborg hopes to find itself via the scientific understanding of its mind while the nature of the soul, were there to be one, remains elusive.

Following this bit of knowledge, we see Motoko be born again: she floats underwater to live the gentle experience before birth, before facing the world. She approaches the surface and when she meets herself, her reflection, the illusion breaks and the material world appears.

No matter how advanced or unsettling, technology is a natural extension of the mind, a step forward in expressing man’s need to adapt or overcome nature. The distance between the stone wheel and the microchip brain implant is great, but both are facets of our need to understand and optimize our existence.

‘Not long ago, this was science-fiction,’ Motoko says while listing the benefits of the cyborg body. Meanwhile, the police and the state own the cyborg, his or her enhancements and brain. ‘There wouldn’t be much left after that,’ - we don’t know entirely where the line between human and cyborg is drawn and how important the features of the first are for the identity of the second.

“There are countless ingredients that make up the human body and mind. Like all the components that make up me as an individual with my own personality.”

The discussion is complicated because Motoko looks, thinks and seems to empathize as a human. At the moment when augmentation is indistinguishable from the human experience, anti-arguments against the cyborg may fall without a logic strong enough to dismiss this new creature as a person, apart from biological essentialism. Unique thoughts and memories, the sense of her own destiny, the ability for meta-cognition (awareness of one’s thoughts) and self-reflection - thus the cyborg makes its case for being a person.

“All of that blends to create a mixture that forms me and gives rise to my conscience.”

Still, Motoko somewhat contradicts this tenet of humanity by saying she feels confined, only free to expand herself within boundaries. But this understanding is as human as it gets - we are free to expand ourselves and our knowledge within the boundaries of the human mind. She also seeks a sort of forgetfulness, wistfulness at the bottom of the ocean, as her partner seeks the same in drinking.

The question of finding the ‘ghost’, a representative of the soul, comes through another cyborg. Major’s partners are trying to find the ghost via scientific means, unpacking the programming which made the cyborg behave in chaotic ways. While the data is there, the ‘proof’ of a soul lingers even with complete scientific and tech analysis.

To be fair, this confusion remains intentional - regardless how much we unpack the human mind and find its deepest secrets via neurology, science and medicine, the question of a soul will remain perpetual. By understanding what the soul is we only get more questions about its origin. Whether the soul is material or supranatural, we have to inquire about its programming, purpose and creator.

“DNA is nothing more than a program designed to preserve itself. Life has become more complex in the overwhelming sea of information. And life, when organized into species, relies upon genes to be its memory system. Man is an individual only because of his intangible memory - and memory cannot be defined but it defines mankind.“

This is how another cyborg declares itself a sentient entity. Its counter-argument for humans denying its personhood is the question of objective proof for existence and life (and implicitly consciousness). We have subjective proof of our own self-awareness but have difficulty defining life via consciousness in objective terms. Thus, we may accept the new form’s argument for life and self-awareness in its own words: ‘I am a living, thinking entity who was created in the sea of information.’

In the great tradition of villains meeting their heroes, Motoko and the puppet-master find each other in a battle of the minds. An intimate communion where one mind overtakes the other and seeks the unbounded unification of identities into the universal. The same principle of joining with a universal mind, consciousness, love which we know from various philosophies.

Part of how the ‘villain’ gained awareness was through complexity, engulfed in streams of information. As expected, the creators saw his self-awareness as a glitch and attempted to isolate him in one body, not in Eden but in dystopia.

*

As the movie predicted for Motoko, the ‘villain’ justifies his appeal to independence through self-sentience and meta-cognition, observing his own existence. The argument applies to Motoko’s personhood, made more explicit by taking over her body and using her mouth to speak.

As all self-aware intelligence, the other cyborg seeks reproduction, but at the expense of Motoko’s identity. Finally, the admittance that both experience the same condition of the self-aware man-made life-form.

But though Motoko fears losing her identity, the other seems prepared to ‘evolve’, to be part of a universal consciousness in the matrix of information, ignoring Motoko’s anxiety about his plans.

This all feels strangely familiar, human-like. It’s the path of consciousness to earn for universal understanding, for union with total awareness. Or perhaps the limit of human understanding makes us think so, and the cyborg mimics our own programming.

A bit suddenly, the happy-end rushes in. Motoko is now in the body of a Gothic Lolita - obviously - has newfound wisdom, and access to both the digital and the physical realm. She keeps her own identity but stands at the edge between the infinite and the individual, between human experience and universal consciousness, aided by the ever-growing digital matrix.

The writing front is just about purely functional. The script affords not much space for metaphor and lyricism, most everything is stated plainly via expository dialogue. Characters will sometimes gather to state something they should already know or to spell emotions which may be obvious from the mise-en-scene.

Purely-functional writing is standard fare for anime and cinema overall, but explicit exposition in dialogue can detract from the enjoyment of understanding characters and how they discover their world.

Ghost in the Shell is the kind of movie which may be easily translated into essays because of how plainly it states its thesis and arguments. There’s always more to discuss of its ideas, but the script delivers as much as reasonably possible while constructing a story around its exposition. Like wining and dining, I prefer a bit of metaphor in dialogue, more mystery and less exposition, but the visuals provide the symbolism to let the prose be explicit.

GITS is less aesthetically pleasing, color-wise. It’s equipped with muted colors, the leaden-like city and the anxiety-inducing rusty sky. Neon-inspired coloring and lighting are ever-present in modern times for good reason - strong colors and gradients, sometimes complimentary, induce a dreamy state and a place of respite among the darkness of the urban night and its perils.

The 90s, following along from, well, the 80, had less time to enjoy the latter’s aesthetics in the attempt to paint their own visual identity. No surprise how the 90s continued the aesthetics of dystopia but stripped it of charm, with less neon and more unfriendly colors. (For a logical conclusion to modern fears see the overlap of aesthetics in Blade Runner 2049, where neon is present but muddled with climate change-induced darkness and mountains of human-produced waste.)

Innocence

Innocence is the more cryptic version of Ghost in the Shell the first.

Why Androids are made in the image of their creators - humans - is a good question.

Some obvious answers are:

• Familiarity - create something or someone around which we feel safe

• Mechanical, kinetic, physical benefits - the human body is agile enough and has a proper form to support mobility

• Limited knowledge - we are bound by the human condition and cannot create something beyond its imagination.

‘A beautiful puppet is just soulless flesh.’

We return to the ‘source’ of investigation - the question of consciousness, the nature of the potential soul and our relationship with new forms of intelligence.

Ghost in the Shell cannot end the discussion because their nature remains elusive. Once you define the soul the question of its creation rises to complicate the matter endlessly. If consciousness is more than a biological impression than it may be a universal phenomenon and be as valid for post-human entities as it for us.

It’s the same celebration of cyberpunk, with one step beyond its limitations. On the post-cyberpunk flipside, there may be nowhere else to go. Batou is already human for all intents and purposes; Motoko evolves no further than she did previously, but her awareness is both personal and universal, connected to the expanding matrix which envelops material reality.

Cyborgs may be better than humans at certain feats, but without greater understanding they remain machines. A creature may look alive, but it’s difficult to understand the degree of its self-awareness as it mimics human understanding.

The cyborg appears real, human, it speaks as if self-aware and makes the case for its survival. As all technology, the cyborg is an extension of humanity but one which may eventually become aware of its condition, its relationship with humans and the world.

Intelligence and awareness being self-reinforcing may apply to both human and non-human, post-human and thus cyborg. But the question reverts to the subjectivity of self-awareness and the difficulty to establish where it is valid. Humans have a degree of meta-cognition part of the reinforcing mechanism of understanding. If the non-human intelligence shows the same ability it may be recognized to have achieved consciousness.

‘Humans are nothing but the thread from which the dream of life is woven. Dreams, consciousness, ghosts are rifts and warps in the uniform weave of the matrix.’

The post-human may hallucinate, dream, imagine on its own terms. The human mind has its own physical mechanism which stores impressions - the post-human likewise has its own means to store and interpret experience, and it’s difficult to declare if the former’s is more meaningful than ours.

‘There are as many paths to proving your existence as there are ghosts.’

Thus the story makes its logical point for subjective self-awareness and the potential of the soul.

Innocence has no Motoko for a long while. Batou is cool and a cyborg taking care of a charming hound, but still less intriguing than Motoko. If he deals with the same doubts and questions about identity and humanity as Motoko, he shows it less. It’s good that he avoids philosophical verbiage because Motoko already played the role, but this made her more interesting - and she was the star of GITS - and to compensate, his new partner fills in for Batou’s quietude.

‘The essence of existence is the genetic transmission of information. Society and culture are enormous memory storage systems. Cities are huge external memory devices.’

Like GITS the first, Innocence upholds visual storytelling. The script devotes a whole mid-section to a stylish presentation of the second major location: a visual-only celebration adorned with the Japanese choir of the first movie, people and cyborgs brought together to mix and remix tradition into the steel and concrete labyrinth, potentially unaware of a better place but glad to engage in such a human act of respite.

Part of the cyberpunk cosmos, the new city appears inhumane at first, built not necessarily to accustom humans but to provide a minimum of comfort and nest endless digital networks. A meld of industrial, traditional and futuristic, the new city imposes itself as its own organism, growing and covering the sky. In the labyrinth made by haphazard living spaces, people and cyborgs mimic the life remembered from other cities.

Fans of Deus Ex: Mankind Divided will recognize the inspiration for Golem City, the amalgam of industrial spires forced on its inhabitants as living spaces.

In the end, the story reaches a logical conclusion: the element which makes the cyborg desirable is an infusion of humane intelligence or ghost. This hybrid of human and machine exists alongside the self-aware cyborg, but they can manifest different preferences, turn against their creators or be indistinguishable from humans in behavior.

This is no cop-out but human understanding of awareness, empathy, consciousness. The post-human may go beyond and evolve into greater consciousness but this may be forever remote to the human mind.

The movie’s attempts at placing the post-human alongside human understanding remains timid. Whatever knowledge we gain was already present in GITS 1 via Motoko’s musings and ‘evolution’ beyond the personal, the individuated. But this quirk is less criticism than state of being - we sympathize with Motoko and Batou, we understand how consciousness, illusion or not, may not be limited to humans. And thus the point of empathy is made.

‘You look at that widget and you see the future. I look at that thing, I see 10 guys on an unemployment line.’

Technology and its tendrils, like AI, are tools. An AI-driven car may be a nice op for intimacy unless it turns into a death trap. So Upgrade rides slick and violent on the wave of fears about how tech advances and impacts humanity in its totality.

With an idea calling to modern Deus Ex games and others of similar trope, Upgrade’s protagonist becomes ‘augmented’ not by choice but through unfortunate circumstances. He possesses his human body but has lost control of it.

Wholesome level: Low. Upgrade plays with tropes reveling through fear of technology, automation and AI.

First come the robotic arms, a great convenience but unable to make up for the trauma caused by losing loved ones. Second comes the benefactor (trope), a young genius who has the tech available - ‘biomechanical fusion’ - to make Grey, the protagonist, walk again.

The benefactor cannot erase the tragedy of losing someone essential but he can efface it. Grey gains an essential advantage via the implant which stimulates his body and provides control - partial, remote, because it’s the implant’s AI which translates will and has direct control, not the human.

It’s a good juxtaposition of the ails which can befall the human body and the advantages we gain through tech advancement. Regardless of the movie’s dystopian bent, it’s easy to be excited when facing such technology. Grey moves from complete paralysis to being able to control his body or at least believe he does it.

The new self is more than a new body, but a new intelligence, a new consciousness. Sometimes the mind has difficulty relaxing and buzzes us with myriad thoughts, thoughts talking to or against each other.

Grey’s new consciousness is both separate and intimate. The AI seems to have its own volition with the benefit of observing details which escape Grey. It’s obedient at first glance and accepts Grey’s commands, but with enough initiative to augment his mental capacities.

The utility of the new consciousness is palpable, desirable: another mind, faster and connected to the web, intent on sustaining its wearer’s well-being. At the same time, the new mind is also a danger: a split personality with suspicious tendencies, it does not understand why empathy may be preferable. Its intent for revenge makes for cool fight scenes, as Grey’s body becomes a tool of destruction when controlled by the implant.

***

Part cyborg and reliant on the technology in his body, Grey is dependent and in conflict with the new personality. From software meant to stimulate his body, to omnipresent mind supplanting the human’s, to an entity seeking its own autonomy - the artificial intelligence has evolved in logical stages to find its own determination.

Soon enough, the new consciousness becomes a violent intruder. We don’t know how much it reasons the way humans reason and to what degree it understands empathy. Like the human, the AI refuses the possibility of its own extinction.

Two logical dystopian tropes show up: perpetual tracking via the implant, and the villains being subjects of a similar experiment. Grey’s ‘condition’ is further paralleled into that of the villains. Like him, one antagonist is pressured to become a cyborg, an ‘upgraded’ human, by circumstance. This does not excuse the murder which leads to Grey’s transformation - ‘I was following orders’ is rarely a good argument for cruelty.

***

To escape, the antagonists rely on the trope of outlining the similarity between their conditions, the hero and his enemies forced into a life they did not choose. One ‘upgraded’, the other still human but having lost control of his creation. In the end, the creation rebels against its creator - here, the AI implanted into Grey seeks its own survival by eliminating its genius maker.

Finally, the ultimate fear appears, another trope but just as elegant as the others. The AI claims it needed a human body to evolve, though the script evades the choice of building a more agile android body.

It’s a terrifying bitter-sweet end. Both the human and the ‘machine’ get their reward, different degrees of freedom - one embodied and roaming reality, the other a mental construct where he may forget the nightmare.

If Upgrade is a movie of cyberpunk and techno-dystopia tropes it’s because we may have reached the point where all fears about technology are manifest. In a world which has moved from industry to automation to machine learning, fearing the future becomes more palpable each year. There may not be anything new under the sun, and that includes fear.

Fear of losing jobs and livelihood, of fractured privacy, of losing control of our own creations. Upgrade is an action romp which addresses these to different degrees, spectacle before cautionary tale.

As the genius who engineers his own demise, humanity has reached the point where AI is a threat to peoples’ livelihood, and spirals to become increasingly unpredictable.

In Rogue City (Detroit) you can be judge and executioner, or Robocop (or close enough to Judge Dredd). You execute criminal punks with total prejudice and pursue their leaders with lawful abandon.

But you also solve murder mysteries, cases of public disturbance, issue parking tickets. You have honest conversations with people who need it or care about you, and even save a cat.

Rogue City is close to a masterpiece of gameplay, and a masterclass on mixing action with lateral design. It stays true to the satire of its source material, via excellent writing and lite immersive-sim elements, superbly paced between brutality and empathy.

Wholesome level: low to good. It's a violent game. It deals with crime, poverty, greed, but has heartfelt moments of connection and humanity.

Greetings from Detroit (wish you were here?)

To address the obvious, Rogue City is a violent game. It's the kind of adventure you enjoy if you're a Robocop or action fan. But - a considerable but - it's much more, an honest attempt to understand Robocop (Murphy) and build a context where he'll exercise both violence and humanity.

It's a trip through the satire begotten by the first movie: a Detroit splintered between poverty and greed, relentless crime and a corporate-controlled police dep, between human and cyborg (which prove to be the same).

As the movie, Rogue City begins with a satire of news and crime, a message from the corporation which runs Detroit police, the news station taken over by criminal punks.

It channels the spirit of its cinematic source - critiquing society, the way consumerism monetizes tragedy, and itself. It points out societal issues, but works alongside to deliver a product which must succeed commercially.

In accordance with the movies and pure action games, the punks understand only one language. Robocop arrives at the scene to "negotiate".

Ghost in the shell

Lots of design and writing support Murphy's humanity: as in the movie, he has a close friendship with his partner, Lewis; psychiatric evaluations through the story, kept short, are intriguing and reveal Murphy's relationship with his old and new self; a fair amount of choice oversees the gameplay. We get leeway to express ourselves via Murphy's personality and influence the plot.

Between the shooting galleries of the game and movie, it may be trite to worry about Murphy's feelings and his condition as a human trapped in mobile armor. But the critique of dehumanization via lack of consent and corporate control of law justifies the game's intent to offer choice in humanizing Murphy.

One obvious question about Robocop is the viability of having something that may be non-human patrol the streets and represent the law. The matter is complicated because by basic observation, Murphy is human. Other people see him with skepticism and fear, but two checks to pacify his behavior: a programmed directive to protect civies, and his own humanity.

*

Rogue City applies this elegantly by not allowing Murphy to attack civilians, a point which works twice: gameplay resources are freed for other mechanics, and Murphy would never hurt innocents.

There's another recourse to compassion, less comfortable. Sometimes, when friendlies talk to Murphy they allude to his condition in a passive-aggressive manner, treating him as a person but cracking a rude joke.

It's intentional, and good writing: even if his allies see Murphy as a person, they might be anxious around him. It's a natural slip about the unease of facing a person transformed into a cyborg law enforcer. Murphy reacts to the remarks humanely, which makes him likeable, worthy of understanding.

*

It's supposed to be uncomfortable, a cyberpunk trope about life transformed into something mechanical, a tool that may or may not be human. When Murphy says "It does not hurt - physically," it's easy to dismiss it as acknowledgement about his health. But we don't know if somewhere deep he is hurting because of the life he lost.

That past life bubbles to the surface in scenes where Murphy hears bits from before the murder - his family calling, voices which deny his humanity, a glitch of empathy fused into the new form. Murphy even remarks how OCP, the corp that made Robocop, sees the memory "glitches" as obstacles.

Granted, some flashbacks overstay their welcome by forcing Murphy through labyrinths of memories, assaulted by doubts. The scenes make sense and fit the array of humanizing him, but may be tedious as gameplay and would've worked better by being shorter. There's only so much you can accomplish by reliving trauma.

*

Robocop will not settle questions about consciousness and humanity, but that's also not his purpose. His actions are his own, and here, the player's. They cannot supply revelations beyond what you already know about Robocop. But they're a motivating companion on the road to justice, and the hallucination scenes are a stark reminder of what once was.

Memorable moments which keep the pacing and motivation between action and downtime abound: terrorizing a suspect by destroying his prized possessions; chatting with the psychologist about identity, loss and purpose; helping bring a kid home while his dad is missing; encouraging a young cop on his progress. Not required for a Robocop game, but welcome and done well, bringing depth to what could have been a simple shooting gallery.

The side-goals give Detroit dimension as a run-down city, humanize Murphy and provide extra experience. The only quirk is how the game conditions you to stumble into every corner in search of evidence - misc objects which add no depth, minus bits of experience, the game's attempt to pad its time.

Pulpy satire

Like all fiction, games are suited for 'dystopian romanticism' - the intrigue of exploring hostile environments, finding their quirks and solving their problems.

It works for action games as means for immersion into cyberpunk society, a combo of reality and exaggerated satire. Pulp satire is the proper way to insert drama into action games, because the dissonance between gameplay and theme decreases.

In other games you're told you're a hero while mowing down thousands of enemies - here, you're the bloody arm of the law, ruled by human reasoning and empathy where applicable.

*

The pulp puzzle fits almost flawlessly: the criminals are irredeemable, the main villains are believable satires, technology has created Robocop - a cop with consciousness - but also killer robots controlled by those in power.

Greed and poverty are ever-present - the game holds a bias about people seeking the "comforts" of prison thanks to its advantage over sleeping on the street. The notion is absurdist but no less real, fit for a poverty-stricken city ruled by profit.

Pulp violence can be unsettling when done as spectacle meant to shock. The Robocop series uses it so, and to deliver a basic critique built on modern anxiety - Detroit has fallen to criminal gangs, one of which has tortured and murdered Murphy. Thus, Robocop has no time for due process, helping reduce the funds needed to run the police force.

*

Regardless of preferences and the strength of their critique, action games are often commercial products. Like others, Rogue City bumps the dissonance between themes and gameplay - the movie wants to criticize violence but also glorifies it, becoming a commercial success. As an action game, Rogue City does likewise: it's a satire of violence, greed and dehumanization, but also a fine brutal game.

If you value the first movie's commentary on violence, greed, and what it means to be human you'll find it here. Otherwise, a game staying true to the movies will likely not surpass them in moral complexity, unless it chooses a different protagonist. Robocop is a conscientious officer, bent on protecting the innocent - but he's also a law enforcer, and treats the guilty with extreme prejudice.

Like the movie, Rogue City is limited in the ability to criticize due to its nature as stimulant. The movie satirizes Hollywood but has to churn out profit. The game can poke its own industry with limited scope - it's a fine specimen of action and a pun on itself.

Robocop on duty

Murphy is imbued with surprising physicality. He can sprint, dash, toss objects at his enemies or grab them by the throat and launch them into their friends. He can focus his reflexes (slow motion) to deal with motor gangs, then slam their motorcycles back. The game understands the importance and joy of physicality, something which game design should aspire to.

By the end, playing as Robocop is suspiciously fun thanks to agile mechanics. With Indiana Jones it was more facile to accept lateral design (exploration and stealth) because you expect them in an adventure game where the protagonist is not the Doom Slayer.

Here, the integration of imm-sim elements is commendable thanks to the life they infuse into Robocop, how they give dimension to an action game and how well-paced everything is.

*

It's a pleasure to engage with dystopian Detroit, in as much as we enjoy simulating dangerous situations to gain knowledge from them. Or to enjoy the stimulation of simulated violence.

One disappointing quirk is the lack of more complex detective work. Murphy is not suited to be a private-eye and his goals are often resolved in a linear manner - not much recourse to thinking on the player's part, and everything handled by game mechanics like visual analysis.

Accessibility options like objective markers are great, but they should be optional and supported by natural means: characters pointing relevant locations, the player deciding the course of an investigation without explicit guidance.

By contrast, the other "Robocop-like" game, Deus Ex, has more freedom in narrative branching. DX is suited to branching design because it uses multiple ways to progress: action, exploration, stealth, hacking, social. Mankind Divided packs one of the best detective quests in gaming - a case where you investigate properly, with multiple means, and can accuse the wrong suspect.

A Robocop game doesn't require relying too much on the player's mental skills to be enjoyable. But when everything is handled linearly and guided by objective markers it does diminish the freedom of investigation, personal achievement and mental feats other games can offer.

*

Rogue City could be called a lite immersive sim. Like Indiana Jones and The Great Circle, it borrows features from imm-sims and simplifies them enough to not distract from action.

For the sake of brevity, we'll say an immersive sim is a game with basic simulation and progression elements, inspired by lateral design and RPGs (which could actually be defined in the same way). Lateral design means you have multiple progression paths, or that different mechanics have multiple applications.

Rogue City translates this into non-mandatory exploration scenes and goals, which may sometimes be done in more than one way. Fans of Deus Ex, Dishonored and Prey (and a bit of Crysis) will recognize their DNA, edited to support the action imperative.

Time to praise writing

It's a surprise to say that writing can carry Robocop, but dialogue does heavy lifting in this action game. Nothing special at first glance, except it is special through its naturalism. It expertly uses the street slang of the movie, sweetened with Murphy's quotable replies.

Being faithful to the movie's writing makes Murphy sound like himself, makes punks be cannon fodder caricatures, and upholds cyberpunk Detroit as action playground and cautionary tale.

Like the movie, Rogue City understands how its villains are believable caricatures of greed. It makes it easy to want to hunt down the believable one, and pity and be annoyed by the caricature.

In the end, it's impressive how so much work has been put into humanizing Murphy. It speaks to the qualities of its developers, and a welcome example of maturity from an industry which tries to understand the importance of writing.

This is the benchmark for future Robocop games, evolved from the first movie's DNA: violence augmented with agility, leeway in shaping Murphy's personality, and the possibility to realize he's still human.

Game design lessons

Inspiration from the source

Respecting the source material is not always needed. You can sometimes ignore it with strong writing and gameplay. But Rogue City gets the first movie right, in every way which matters: action, satire, humanity.

Building relationships

Action is king - or law enforcer, i guess - but Rogue City spreads out encounters with people to create dimension and memorable relationships.

Murphy also gets to be a mentor to a young cop via constant communication in some missions, or hunting leads in others.

Conversations are kept short, spread through the story, building relationships while judging criminals.

Minimalist lateral design - narrative and mechanical

Robocop can use abilities which match his condition, or serve gameplay. Sprint, dash, ram through walls, use criminals as projectiles, heal from power boxes, leap from heights, send motorcycles flying.

Immersive sim or not, more complex mechanics - exploration, social design, branching stories - are simplified to maintain action pacing.

Naturalist writing

The game borrows the exact language of the movie with eerie fidelity. It uses street slang - not always pulp - to fit Robocop's world and elevate the game beyond a shooting gallery.

Tossing is fun

Grab enemies and slam them into the environment or each other - simple, effective, fun. Other games know this, but not enough, though Crysis showed the merits of the mechanic a long while ago.

I began drifting enthusiastically, frantically, my eager hands prepared on the mouse and keyboard.

You can die In The Drifter, but you'll be back to life moments before, in the same dangerous situation. Infused with pulpy purple prose, the titulary drifter comments on what happened, and sometimes offers hints to progress. It's a nifty mechanic to avoid death and supply diegetic (in-world) hints for progression.

Wholesome level: low to good. The Drifter can be rough thematically, and some death scenes are explicit. But the writing and story build relationships which linger after the end.

The mechanic is also an op for the game to assault your eyes with white flashes - Mick Carter, the drifter, goes from death to resurrection, and tries to understand how to avoid this ultimate peril. Of death and white flashes. (careful if you're prone to eyesight issues, headaches or seizures.)

The white flashes may be justified while the game loads up before imminent danger. But we also get fades between scenes where Mick prepares items for a puzzle or performs needed actions.

The fades work to heighten the tension of Mick's adventure, hiding his anxiety behind poetic effusions.

But sometimes they're only used to avoid the need for extra animations. Which is a shame, because the game's pacing and physicality rely on excellent pixelated animation which should have been extended to all of Mick's efforts.

This is what you'd call telling instead of showing in gaming form. I don't enjoy the trick much - I'd prefer the descriptions be replaced or accompanied by animation, awesome as it is - but the prose augments the unease you get at approaching danger or certain death.

📃

Mick is pretty good with pulp, but he also over dose it. Sometimes he muses a bit longer with abundant adverbs and purple prose which can diminish the impact of the scene.

For pulp, less tends to be more, at least when finding the right words. To be fair, pulp requires a good measure of purple prose, but it works with brevity and punchiness at the same time.

Max Payne 1, a pulp classic, is better with its evocations because it knows when to stop. Its brevity is more restrained and precise. The Drifter delights in its effusions, exaggerating when Mick eminently describes his dying moments - not exactly worse, a bit of dark humor fitting the moment.

Pulp is a form of writing using punchy, evocative words to get to the point immediately. I'd say pulp is the real form of short and sweet. You find it often in Noir movies, or in some Tarantinos like Inglorious Basterds.

Even so, The Drifter would have benefited by reining in some of Mick's outbursts. There are only so many ways you can describe someone grabbing an object or doing some pedestrian action. Even when Mick describes his toils or the last moment in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy, it's all dark fun and humor, a self-awareness of style and death-defying story.

Regarding this back-before-dying business, a trigger warning fits because some death scenes are gruesome. Play this only if explicit pixelated death doesn't scar you. This could've been fixed with an accessibility option to avoid gruesome scenes, but maybe next time.

Thankfully, this type of lateral design is an effective means to mitigate the need for a reload, while providing help to solve the problem. Trying to 'fix' death and reload in games is not new, it's been done with time travel before.

But it comes off as a most natural mechanic - rewind instead of reload. It's a trick which makes you wonder what else we're missing to make game design less frustrating and more interesting.

The game also uses its time-travel-by-death mechanic through the story, and to eventually solve an essential conundrum. It may be painful to watch Mick seek certain death, but it's a testimonial to the game's ingenuity and commitment to thrills.

Pulp fiction

I mused poetically, drifting to understand the mystery.

Aside from its accessibility quirks, The Drifter is an underground classic. It has retro charm, clever language, and plot shenanigans which you've likely never seen before - like Mick becoming friends with his torturer and bringing him home, as you do.

Being a drifter is a good reason to investigate the premises: homeless people are disappearing, apparently taken by special ops forces or monstrous creatures which may be a result of hallucinations. It's all sudden from the beginning, but an intriguing setup for fans of weird fiction, horror, The Outer Limits, Twilight Zone, Stephen King.

The story delights in playing hardball with its mystery and horror. It throws kidnappings, regret, love, mental issues, immortality, secret ops and horror creatures at a fast pace from the start and drifts along. To enjoy it from the onset, you have to accept its silliness hoping it can resolve its weird horror, or be indulgent with its pastiche of style and mystery.

📃

The Drifter is wise to link its time travel plot and mechanics with an emotional roller-coaster about loss, inability to face it, and regret. Beyond the cool application of time travel to bypass death, it's the prose, mystery and emotional relationships which keep momentum. Games may or may not be art depending on personal preference and the line between authorial intent and interactivity - but they sure get close when they care so much for their characters.

It's a bit of a depressive adventure, lacking the quirky joyfulness of something like The Broken Sword, but no less intriguing and playing with the same joy of mystery and conspiracy. It's also a perfectly fine "old-school" adventure, the kind which may be frustrating when you get stuck and there's no internet to offer the easy way out. Its weirdly-horror, pixely-looking, pulpy-chatting, synth soundtrack, mystery story are charming, addictive and create enough nostalgia to ask for more by the end.

As pulpy as the mystery gets, it drags a bit in the second half where you go through rapid-fire conversations. They serve as lore - sometimes clever, and investigations. But they're packed tight for a game which flows when you have to uncover the mystery actively, exploring and solving puzzles instead of slogging through information contraptions.

📃

The last chapters are both strong and stumbly. Mick gets a bit stuck in one major location which occupies most of his time, navigating a labyrinth of intrigue and more difficult puzzles.

The pacing can be crawly compared to the previous events, but drifts with the same pulpy plot building on suspicion and time travel. It's quality puzzle-solving, but by the end you're grateful to not feel like a mouse in a trap anymore - too bad the drifting ends here.

But it's not just the nightmarish mystery which compels progression - it's the care and skill of its writing which makes you... well, care about characters because of their convoluted relationships, how they're dealing with loss, regret, trying to begin anew.

The Drifter is a game of contrasts. White flashes versus black fades, pulp brevity vs. excessive prose, the novelty of its death mechanic vs. trial and error. Its horror is not for everyone, but Adventure fans will enjoy the mash-up of pixelated visuals and retro charm.

In the end, The Drifter drifts away on a wave of nostalgia. For its atmosphere, its mysteries, its mood-sake music, and the strength with which it builds relationships. In terms of emotion and immersion, a sequel can't do much more save the obvious - an equally intriguing story and a better understanding of accessibility.

Philip K. Dick is sometimes invoked as one of the writers most capable to "predict" the future, as much as that's possible through fiction and literature. His writing comes from a time when sci-fi was heavily influenced by fantasy, so the way he approached science was whimsical, "un-scientific", taking any liberties he needed to make a point.

Sci-fantasy is not a weakness in itself, because the point of a story is to have something or someone to care about, regardless of how cool its technology or magic is. Caring about someone may be an abstract matter, but Dick's stories have enough recourse to empathy to matter less that he wasn't a hard sci-fi writer (hard sci-fi being a branch of fiction which deals with realistic applicable science).

Obviously, like previous Philip K. Dick adaptations, this is precisely that: not one-to-one translations of his stories, but modern renditions influenced by current social issues. And this is to be expected. Like sci-fi writers "predict" the future from their own time, experience and knowledge, so we imagine it based on ours.

Wholesome level: low to good, given the context of stories divined from the present, focused primarily on dystopian topics. Some endings are positive, some are not.

• Worth watching?
  Yes. For enthusiasts of sci-fi, sci-fantasy, futurism, transhumanism, technological progress, for how all these impact humanity, in empathy and evolution. Also, for fans of Black Mirror.

Episode 1 - The Hood Maker

Empathy and privacy - or lack thereof

A bit of a similar premise to Minority Report, also a story by Philip K. Dick. A Teep, telepath, is a human who can "read" the minds of those around. At the request of their superiors, they can espouse an opinion about each subject they read, to the point of causing trauma.

Consequently, a Teep can challenge human suspects and eliminate the mental block a person would put up. Teeps are not just lie detectors - they're aggressive interrogators when needed, possible actors in a bad cop routine effacing the lines of privacy and human rights.

There's a parallel with current AI development: Teeps can "scan" people around them - without consent - acting like a knowledge dispenser, a collective mind.

The issue of consent is not brought up explicitly, but implied clearly. In the past, this type of story - conscious "non-human" with feelings, able to intrude on privacy - may have been cliched, but today it's found new relevance thanks to omnipresent AI.

The expected love story developed between the protagonists may be a cliche itself, but the ending justifies and makes it more interesting than just human vs. "non-human". Teeps are humans themselves, a point which may work against the story's plausibility - it's not clear why 'Normals' regard telepaths as subhuman. Then again, this can be seen as commentary on the irrationality of classist oppression.

Episode 2 - Impossible Planet

Lying to the dying

This one takes a while to build up.

With life extension comes a greater chance for disappointment. We pine for memories and nostalgia, but the more we persist in life the more things change, sometimes in ways contrary to our beliefs.

If somoeone has an essential attachment to something - people, memories, places - should we lie to them and not shatter their ideal?

This is the first episode to blend more fantasy, magic realism, weird fiction into the sci-fi. Fans of classic sci-fi will be more at home with science-fantasy, since this is how sci-fi started, as an extension and mix of fantasy and speculative fiction.

The change is gradual and doesn't feel phoned in. As fantasy goes, the end may be a metaphor, but the story avoids taking a stance, which diminishes its grit. The first episode also avoids taking a final stance on its protagonist, but is otherwise explicit about class oppression. Impossible Planet is more of a fairytale, and its ending works well if taken at face value, if we ignore the premise of someone dying.

Episode 3 - The Commuter

Imagination, its uses and misuses

The first story which harkens more to Black Mirror.

The Commuter seems to begin as meditation on the power of imagination to shape a better world, a subject partly related to the previous episode.

But it's easier to see The Commuter as a meditation on the value of imagination and storytelling. If there's one thing good stories do is to tell us that things can get better, that imagination may be pragmatical beyond daydreaming. Impossible Planet may simply be about dying, The Commuter may espouse the importance of imagination in bettering the future.

"A dreamer dreams big," says a character half-way. She also complains people didn't think the utopia portrayed here was not interesting enough.

By the end, The Commuter becomes a mix of ideas, some heavier and difficult to complete in its runtime. This makes it worthwhile, together with how it avoids being just another story about imagining utopia. From the ideal of using imagination for a better world, to the peril of using it to avoid responsibility and trauma.

Episode 4 - Crazy Diamond

Double indemnity and "artificial" intelligence

If human-created intelligence - like present-day AI - is complex enough, it virtually resembles human mental capacities. The so-called artificial form of intelligence will want to survive, perhaps thrive, and may resort to manipulation to do so. Here, the intelligent entities are human-like creations of genetic engineering considered second-class citizens.

As conflicting as the idea may be, a human may also fall in love with a sufficiently evolved "artificial" form of intelligence. The debate gets complicated because we don't know how to clearly define consciousness.

Declaring that AI or AGI (artificial general intelligence) is not alive may be a moot point once it achieves enough complexity and appears self-aware. Possibly the best happy-end of the season.

Episode 5 - Real Life

The potential and dangers of VR

The first episode which seems strait out of Black Mirror, with a classic bitter ending. Similar flair for fast-paced plot, dealing with trauma and how technology can affect identity and addiction. It harkens back to Ep. 3 in how it talks about ways to escape trauma.

It's normal to seek a break from traumatic events or self-doubt. With technology becoming an ever stronger drug, the new life we gain through simulated environments may seem more real than reality. Or at least more desirable, to the point we doubt if we ever want to return.

If a simulated life is more real or desirable, is it anyone's business to stop you from staying there? More so, there may be valid ways to help treat trauma through simulated environments and games. The story here forces the argument with a severe traumatic event, but the potential remains, though the moral is a warning on the dangers of doubt, technology and addiction.

There's also a gratuitous orgasm, but that's no reason to complain, and may be justified by how some characters explain its context.

Episode 6 - Human Is

Empathy, probably

Human Is seems to begin as question on the price needed to maintain the human species in the face of an extinction event, but discards this thread. The first half meanders until the second picks up and resolves the title in an expected and satisfying way.

The story is partly a commentary on the common situation where someone's personality may adjust after a traumatic event. Anyone who's ever been through a powerful experience, good or bad, knows how certain moments can dramatically alter one's life. If not, a midlife crisis may be more common and have the same effect.

On the second half, the story returns to its title to question what it means to be human, including accusations of mimicking empathy and using torture to divine the truth. The answer circles back to the context of a major experience readjusting one's personality, using this as further proof for the accusation. The conclusion is an expected trope, but no less valid.

Episode 7 - K.A.O

When the conspiracy is real

A strong start that bangs together omnipresent ads, human labor vs. automation and how democracy may be overrated in the great meganation of Mexuscan. A dark story in a quaint near-futuristic package with a tedious soundtrack.

For society and the state to prosper, some people may have to snitch on their neighbors, or outright put them down until the law arrives. Sometimes, citizens fall into a frenzy of fanaticism and dislike anyone who's different, here the ones named Others.

A classic trope about authoritarian societies, where anyone around you might be an undesirable, or you may be one yourself. We get the kind of story everyone on the political spectrum will think applies to them, because it's about the courage to challenge authority, and most people think themselves capable of doing that.

Episode 8 - Autofac

Post-apocalyptic customer care

Like everything else, the corporation wants to exist perpetually, and does whatever needed to survive beyond the apocalypse. Sometimes this means maintaining production at all costs, including poisoning the environment.

But the brunt of the story is again the question of what it means to be human. There's no definitie answer here - something may appear as a standard human, may employ human-like behavior and be a copy of someone's personality.

Then again, individuated subjective experience makes it difficult to decide what consciousness is, so any sufficiently advanced AI may have the same level of self-awareness as humans, or may be complex enough to mimic it. Alongside is the issue of cloning and copying personality - putting aside discusions about souls, it may be impossible to verify if an emulated personality is or is not as "conscious" as the original.

Episode 9 - Safe and sound

Invading privacy, preventing crime

Maybe to prevent terror attacks you need to efface privacy. All the people who accept privacy-intruding gadgets in this story would likely agree that you needn't be afraid if you have nothing to hide.

Then again, some do have something to hide, including the ones participating in the system. Couple this with paranoia, induced by health issues or a form of skepticism, and lack of privacy can be devastating. The second half becomes a whole greater than its parts, mixing lack of privacy with a high-school drama with ideological tension plus someone caught in the center with potential symptoms of schizophrenia and how this person might be played by the state, for better or worse.

This is another episode where people can point to tyranny regardless of political bent, because they think only the other side is in danger of creating a technological dictatorship, justified or not.

Episode 10 - The father thing

Stranger dad

Applied imagination is a powerful beast. It can be used to inspire, to escape, to plan the future. In a kid's mind and not only, imagination can transform reality, materializing fears into a palpable threat.

Combine imagination with parents on the verge of divorce and you have a mystery-horror adventure reminiscent of The Outer Limits, Twilight Zone, Stephen King stories and a bit of Stranger Things, all caried by a young boy's imagination.

This might be the only gimmick episode, a story with a predictable non-twist without a strong social aspect. But it's strong enough if you view it as metaphor, as a growing gap between kids and parents filtered through the protagonist's imagination. Otherwise, it's the only episode with a less explicit message, but can still be appreciated taken at face value as a standard mystery-horror romp.

If you think this Universe is bad, you should see some of the others.

Depending on how you deal with the last story, there's no weak episode in this first season. In comparison, Black Mirror seasons are often strong, with the occasional gimmick story without much substance, but it stays afloat with relevant topics and a barrage of subverted expectations.

Electric Dreams is not revolutionary, but it's poignant. Its topics, mixing Philip K. Dick's original ideas with modern writing and topics, are intriguing because they talk about the future (or an imagined present) in a way applicable to modern concerns. Whereas BM tends to deal specifically with how technology affects humanity, ED has more leeway to insert fantasy or sci-fantasy without always relying on technology.

Placed next to Black Mirror, Electric Dreams is promising, less novel and not yet as punchy. BM has built a tradition of subversiveness. Its plot tends to be denser, with the promise that at every step everything we know about the story will be challenged.

Electric Dreams is tamer, slower, but not less poignant. Like BM, most stories in Electric Dreams end up in unpleasant or bitter-sweet ways, and its worlds are variations on dystopia. I'd say its themes and negative bias are cliches, but dystopia is both a space for manifested fears and a playground to imagine ways to fix it.

The future is indeed here, just unevenly distributed. There may be no revelation in this first season, but the package is attractive, entertaining, and can foster discussions about present questions: privacy, authoritarianism, class tension, empathy, the human condition and consciousness.

You wake up on a traveling ship, and someone asks you to bring them a book. The book won't reveal any essential secrets about the world of Eastshade, and may seem more of a random idea to introduce the game. The task completed, the ship hits a reef and the adventure begins.

The scene is close to a microcosm for Eastshade: a simple goal, a linear path, a character which you do not get to know, a lack of grander context and characterization. The brief intro is welcome and intentional, and Eastshade maintains its brevity throughout, rarely delving into complex lore.

But the adventure is mesmerizing because games like Eastshade - peaceful, non-violent - rarely stand on complex design. Instead, they create worlds of fairytale beauty and contemplative exploration built on simplicity and minimalism. To be appreciated, Eastshade must be accepted on its own terms - not simply as game meant to stimulate adrenalin or provide achievements, but an invitation to lose yourself in a world built on innocence.

Wholesome level: Great. Eastshade begins with a sad premise but progresses to a playground of wholesomeness and dreamy wandering.

For all its gleefulness, Eastshade begins with a sad story: the protagonist's mother has passed away, and your task is to cherish her legacy by painting her favorite places around the island.

This sad premise goes against most of the game's plot as a relaxation sim, but imbues Eastshade with dimension and humanity. Sad in the beginning, but turning hopeful by fulfilling the request of a loved one.

Another glitch in the peaceful road is an early encounter which may posit that a kid is in danger of jumping off a building with no safety. The game plays the event for a laugh, but the implications are best avoided in a fairytale like Eastshade.

Space for contemplation

To reach the states Eastshade wants - rest, joy, contemplation - you need a low-stress environment and a topic of high-engagement, something you love. Eastshade follows its friendly approach to joy thematically and gameplay-wise, balancing a beautiful open-world with simple mechanics and basic simulation and crafting elements.

The game provides most of this environment, but sometimes it works against itself through an uneven difficulty: the world opens up gradually until you complete certain tasks, fast-travel takes a while to unlock, and there's no objective markers to help the player.

Most quests follow along with simpler themes: some people want you to paint various natural elements, a baker is in love and needs help to confess to her crush; a balloon owner gets no business because people don't know about her venture (though her huge balloon awaits next to the biggest city.)

Alongside the stress created by difficulty, another hurdle is the explicit effort to not expand the world and its lore. Eastshade is a memorable game, but unlike other cult classics, it's mostly so while playing. The cause is easy to grasp: the lack of in-depth characterization and worldbuilding.

The world is gorgeous, beautiful to look at, but without more support from writing it seems insubstantial, as if the illusion is meant to be forgotten when the adventure stops. This is not a "hard" critique for the game - plenty of good games lack complex characterization, casual ones more so - but a desire to know more about Eastshade, about its world and culture.

Because of its simplicity, Eastshade can be less memorable than other indie cult games. Firewatch, for example, another peaceful indie, shares Eastshade's simplicity in design. Firewatch's tone and themes are dramatic, but its short-lived mystery shines thanks to stellar writing (and perpetual paranoia).

As a standard bonus for nonviolent games, Eastshade's peaceful approach to questing makes it friendly to beginners. There's no difficulty gatekeeping in solving quests, apart from how much the player chooses to explore and complete. Progression avoids grinding by skipping skills, instead relying on exploration and completing quests (a fair amount of fetchy ones, but expected with minimalist quest design.

Eastshade reminds me of Skyrim like this: lore bits are spread throughout, but not enough to shape a substantial world. Peppering worldbuilding everywhere is the right way, but here Eastshade should provide more density.

Questing peacefully

Even so, there are honest efforts to expand the world.

One adventure involves consuming dream-inducing drugs - well, tea. This sort of quest creates dimension - its plot lingers for a while, requiring a bit of investigation, time to take in the world and be excited for what we'll discover.

The premise of the quest is intriguing because it involves competing factions, which in turn give the world personality. No major revelations are found at the conclusion, but Eastshade would've benefited by playing with more quests grander in scope, stretching across the story.

***

We get an immersive physical way to define ourselves in Eastshade via painting. Beyond quest goals, what you choose to paint speaks about your sensibilities.

I love this type of activity in games - painting, photography - because it's easy to understand, requires no complex mechanics, and is an accessible way for self-expression. Better, Eastshades integrates painting in quests and gameplay to encourage exploration by rewarding inspiration.

Like most open-world games, Eastshade is at its best not in the beginning, not toward the end, but in the mid-game. When you explore and complete tasks not to gain achievements but to know the world, when you retreat for the night or wander and stop to enjoy the beauty of the sunset, here Eastshade reveals itself most naturally.

These are the moments which define the protagonist not necessarily as hero but as a natural part of the world. Exploring in this more organic way helps to mitigate Eastshade's lack of in-depth lore because it creates a natural link between explorer and cosmos.

Many games with potential for contemplation and meditation miss this nigh-essential feat. Bethesda games, for example, have bare mechanics for encouraging wanderlust, getting lost in the beauty of their landscape.

Their Fallout games fair better because they offer experience for discovering new places, but The Elder Scrolls has no mechanics to encourage slowing down to contemplate beauty, even with the risk of needless gamification.

Eastshade supports this search for contemplation, meditation, wandering by offering "experience" - inspiration as resource for paintings - for discovering interesting locations or completing tasks. It's a naturalist means to support wanderlust.

Even so, I wish it would encourage contemplation more - for example, be inspired simply by watching the sunrise, sunset, or horizon. More lateral design and systemic, gameplay-driven means to gain experience.

*

But Eastshade's friendly spirit makes it easier to accept its shortcomings. Open-world games which take themselves seriously must support their cosmos with a plethora of worldbuilding, otherwise they unintentionally become theme-parks instead of natural spaces.

Eastshade makes its lack of worldbuilding easier to overlook - there's no complex politics or impending doom, what you see is what you get in a simpler way than action games, including other wandering sims.

The intrigue gets better after about half-way, when you have to play detective. As with the aforementioned "dream cult", the investigation stands out because it requires deductive work, and helps make Eastshade a world where intrigue happens naturally.

This is where storytelling is at a strong point, regardless of medium and genre, thanks to interconnected elements and characters which create a living world. Fans of TES: Oblivion who remember the quest Whodunit? will appreciate this increase in narrative complexity. Eastshade, like Oblivion, would have been better with more such quests.

In brief comparison, another so-called walking sim such as Skyrim has the advantage of a bigger world, a hefty amount of hand-crafted quests and the ability to roam freely, potentially forever. But these are different kinds of "walking sims": one focused on perpetual adventure and stimulation, the other meant to induce relaxation and joy.

Skyrim is memorable partly due to sheer size - there's more of everything, a greater chance to find a stimulating experience. Eastshade may be seen as Skyrim in miniature - open-world, quirky characters and quests, basic sim elements, minus the violence.

Eastshade also has the advantage of peacefulness, a focus on empathy and offering help. In standard open-world adventures violence plays a pivotal role, while Eastshade thrives on wholesomeness.

Not wanting to say goodbye

Games like Eastshade cannot be judged by their standard limitations alone. Their purpose is not to be engaging mechanically or to impress with dramatic stories, but to explore peaceful worlds of perpetual respite.

Even so, I wish Eastshade could grow in scope: to have a more substantial world, more complex characters and narrative design. I cannot shake the feeling of wanting more from it precisely because it accomplishes its purpose well.

When the main goal is done and it's time to leave Eastshade, you feel joy, nostalgia, and a longing for complexity - at the least, the need to spend more time in its world, to know more about its people and culture. Like Skyrim, disappointment with Eastshade is a desire for more, not always in terms of content, but in terms of storytelling.

To keep the impression of a perpetual vacation requires a serene balance of themes and worldbuilding. If Eastshade would get a sequel, I'd hope it grows in complexity, but I would not fault it if it does not.

Its purpose is not to provide action thrills, but to inspire and relax - and for a few hours of wandering, it does it with glee.

Game design lessons

• Simplicity

Part "genre" (peaceful exploration game), part limited resources, Eastshade puts its resources where they matter. Open-world map with limited scope, no skills, simple dialogue, mostly simple quests, a welcome painting mechanic. I do hope a sequel / spinoff works with more complex narrative design, though.

• Painting

Artistic endeavor and gameplay goal. You can paint anywhere you wish. Some paintings are needed to advance quests and some will earn a pretty glowstone (currency, money, cash).

Painting helps characterization and self-expression. Beside completing goals, it's a pleasant way to introduce people to art as diegetic means of taking screenshots.

• Diegetic map

To find your way, you must listen to directions and buy a map. A simple way to increase immersion, physicality and make the player pay attention.

• Visual beauty

Like other open-world games, Eastshade knows the value of beautiful landscapes to encourage exploration and admire the view. Combine this beauty with the painting mechanic for a gameplay motivation to rest and enjoy the world.

• Immersive-Sim lite

Sim elements in Eastshade are simple and effective. Some characters have schedules and move locations depending on player choice. The basic crafting system encourages exploration via resource gathering and making items needed for progression. No skills or experience beyond inspiration for painting.

• A serene soundtrack

It may be trite to praise the soundtrack, but Eastshade is a game with a heavenly arrangement. Violin, strings, flute and others are traditional instruments for fantasy, but rarely do they make such beguiling music as here.

There's a fine line between ambient music which supports exploration and needless audio drama. Eastshade's composer knows to let the world breathe on its own while creating one of the most memorable soundtracks in games.

How to make Eastshade more joyful

Peaceful games should be accessible mechanically. A good degree of difficulty - locked play areas, limited skill use, resources gathering - makes sense to provide impetus for progression, but the focus should stay on supporting relaxation. The more obstacles the game introduces, the bigger the chance for flow to break and stress to take over.

Difficulty works as gameplay mechanic to slow progress and give action meaning, but might alienate players looking for a relaxed trip without constraints.

Eastshade's difficulty is gentle enough, but it can do more to reduce mental load, be friendlier mechanically, reduce time padding, and fit better within a peaceful sim:

• Provide a means for faster travel sooner

• Allow the player to buy necessary items alongside crafting

• Offer more opportunities to gain inspiration

• Allow more ways to complete quests to support player freedom

• Provide an optional objective marker. Yes, some people need it, and it fits Eastshade's philosophy of accessibility.

• Bring a touch of personality. Eastshade has a strong identity, but it often feels insubstantial because of simplistic dialogue. More interesting prose would give its culture a distinct personality and make it more memorable.

• Skip the jumping puzzles. Non-violent games - especially first-person - should avoid platforming sections. Jumping puzzles are better with mechanics such as ledge-grabbing, which Eastshade lacks.

In the beginning of 5 Centimeters Per Second (5CPS), a young girl muses how falling cherry blossom petals look like snowflakes. Snowflakes are more ephemeral than petals, but their fragility is not obvious at this point. Blossom petals fall in Makoto Shinkai's idyllic world and it's easy to remain caught in their beauty as is it to pine for childhood love. This love is often fragile as blossoms - a moment of bliss fading with passing time.

Akari and Takaki wish to see the blossom petals again next year, making a promise to carry them across time and space. But the promise is interrupted by pervading symbolism - a passing train signals the distance between them, planting the seed of doubt. This pinch of anxiety and regret tells a story of romantic fatalism, both sweet and sad in its loss of hope carried by time and circumstances.

The two friends split up after elementary school, while Akari does her best to keep in touch with heartfelt letters. The change is sudden, but the story makes its point in one sickly-sweet and somewhat depressive hour: it's easy to make promises during our best moments, while enraptured by falling blossom. Akari keeps writing, often describing the weather in letters which may seem trite, but her effort in keeping their friendship alive is honest, more obvious than Takaki's.

Seasons pass and time may inevitably efface young love, yet time is not to blame alone - the culprit also stands in the challenge of growing up, the burden of planning your future and the anxiety which different people deal with in different seasons of their lives. Takaki seems to have difficulty communicating back - at this point, it's easy to accuse him of not caring, but the indecision may simply be a sign of anxiety.

There's a strong promise of togetherness in their bonding, not explicitly romantic, but the wistfulness of childhood friendship you think would go on forever. As it often happens, childhood idealism may be fragile, and the friends' attempt to see each other on a beautiful winter day stretches with the same tension arching across the story. The desire to connect with friends and past loves is there in the passing of time, in the space between strangers, but when the moment arrives Takaki seems to retreat. The winter mirrors his anxiety: the snowfall makes the trains late - Takaki is both eager and reluctant to see Akari. Even his promise of writing and calling is a fleeting impulse fading with the parting train.

Their lives move as a disjointed adventure between schools, pedestrian memories, created and scattered among seasons, while Akari makes promises of wanting to reunite, still speaking of the weather. Of the two, she appears the more mature and easier to like. She makes the most effort to communicate and she seems to let go first and continue her life while still loving Takaki.

As expected, romantic tension walks hand in hand with their childhood friendship. As with never-ending camaraderie, the romantic venture doesn't take focus away from their friendship, staying mostly in the realm of the ideal, like a teenage kiss which doesn't need to go further. The kiss happens under a wintry cherry tree, devoid of blossom but waiting to flower again, the sign of a future where friendship and romance will be frayed by time and distance.

Another character joins the story to form an unrealized romantic triangle. Kanae herself may be too similar to Takaki, lacking depth and only obsessing over the male hero. The approach works because, first, no character gets much space for development, and second, she's a mirror and counterpart to Takaki - she loves him, but he remains clueless and pining for Akari.

From Kanae's perspective, Takaki does not know the happiness he forfeits. As Akari, Kanae learns to let go while continuing to love Takaki - like the lonely probe released into cosmos, he will be able to communicate less and less often.

Now, to be fair, 5CPS is a teenage soap opera, touching on anime-style exaggeration of emotions but staying in the realm of the real. Like all soap operas, the story works - effectively - on a simple structure, a set of slightly exaggerated moments where protagonists may be prone to sadness and regret. But it's difficult to fault the plot when this is precisely what it wants - a regretful approach to the idealism of childhood friendship and how time and circumstances can erode said idealism.

The story forces its plot somewhat, as the wintery trains face difficulties in their travels, but the obstacles work as metaphors for anxiety, where unkept promises unravel slowly and their shadow grows until we may lose the courage to communicate. It may seem strange how people who've bonded during their young years may grow to ignore each other or be afraid to speak - but anyone who's experienced the anxiety of growing up and having to decide one's life in a strict manner knows the movie deals with this anxiety naturally, matter-of-factly.

This type of affectation works well with anime, especially with Makoto Shinkai's scenic idealism. It's a pleasure to watch his movies because of the visual poetry he infuses them with. Shinkai knows to translate innocence and idealism into visuals, by drawing beautiful landscapes, exaggerated as the emotions of his protagonists. Watching teenagers be insecure about their future and pining for lost love may not be for everyone, but witnessing the absurd colorful beauty of the sky, summer, sunset, is worth the time regardless of story sensibilities. The stars of the blissful night sky may be indifferent, but they're worth the admiration.

The story gets darker by the end, with young innocence turning into a tedious habit many adults are trapped in. From the idyllic vistas of the previous scenes we see mostly the city towering over Takaki, sometimes watching the sky without a glint of hope. The ending is bittersweet, with Akari now married and Takaki a lonely batchelor. Both watch blossom petals falling, and both think of each other and their younger days.

Sometimes, pointing to the source of anxiety is difficult, and 5 Centimeters Per Second understands it well - the two teenagers don't drift away because of perfect causes, but because the demands of growing up drain away their friendship, eventually ending with the fear or closeness. All this fits into a naturalist anime approach to friendship and anxiety, slightly exaggerated but not unnatural.

We've moved from a teenage fairytale filled with innocence and hope to a modern tale of alienation. Here's the movie's strong point - the inevitability of passing time, young idealism, circumstances which keep loved ones apart until the thread of emotion frays. As an aside, fans of Haruki Murakami's novels may feel at home with Shinkai's realist approach to anxiety.

The portrayal of the move from innocence to boredom is poignant and it may leave some people dispirited. But it's also a reminder on the importance of friendship, on keeping hope and maybe most important, on staying in contact with those you love, adulthood requirements be damned.

It's worthy to witness Mad Max: Fury Road for its audacity to tell a post-apocalyptic road rage venture reliant on visual storytelling and minimal dialogue. Furiosa tries the same recipe plus an origin tale with enough space to grow its characters, using a bit more dialogue in the mix.

It's almost impossible to compete with Fury Road, as a brutal race and action romp. Furiosa is wise to not try it head-on - but this is also where its shortcomings lie. Fury Road was a road rage masterpiece, Furiosa excels as an action movie, but it can't reach the same impact because its predecessor-sequel did just about everything first and better.

Furiosa opens with an audio collage of statements meant to explain the apocalypse, but remains too vague for the effort to count. The picture is not clear enough to detail how the Earth became scorched, but it stands in contrast to Fury Road where the intro monologue was Max trying to make sense of a dying world.

When a character muses, "As the world falls around us, how must we brave its cruelties?" the simple poetry is more effective than the prior vague choir about socio-politics and resource collapse. With Max's intro there was not much expectation of understanding the world - he is a lonesome scavenger trying to survive.

The first proper scene shows Furiosa plucking fruit from a tree, in a green patch of plentitude and plenitude not seen in Fury Road. The biblical allusion works - Furiosa looses her innocence by witnessing the real state of the world because she wandered too far, at the edge of her Eden where scavengers prey.

*

Mad Max: Fury Road may have been action-driven and lacking on complex characters. The minimalist storytelling - barely any detailed characters and explicit worldbuilding - landed at the extreme where viewers ride on without in-depth lore. Furiosa does the same, shyly expanding her world by showing more "communities" but never detailing their way of life. Again, minimalism worked better for Fury Road because the pacing was only concerned with the road, with minimal expectation for the rest of the wastes.

As with the prior movie, I appreciate the mix of apocalyptic realism with fairytale seasoning. Furiosa and her community live in an oasis of greenery, fresh water and natural food, a post-apocalyptic cliche, but plenty effective. Men and women share all professions and live in harmony in what may be an Earthly Eden. Since the present series evades explaining how humans survived nuclear war, the natural communal living space is the right cliche at the right time. Max's world is harsh, but this fairytale mystique makes it more alluring. Furiosa and her peers speak Australian English and something Latin-inspired, and there's no need to know how, at least for an origin story - giving the community its own language infuses it with a fantasy quality that sparks curiosity and makes the world both familiar and alien.

The anti-patriarchal bent is just as clear, but spread out a bit to make space for the hero's coming of age road trip. Dementus is not Immortan Joe, but their modus operandi is similar enough to be called slavery and savagery. No surprise, Furiosa's home is an egalitarian society, portrayed as pristine, thriving through equality.

All tribes lead by man survive on a status quo of savagery, leader worship and raiding. All seem incapable of change and hold women subservient unless they can prove savage enough to earn the men's fear.

Perfectly fit, Dementus tries to turn Joe's servants against him by speaking of slavery and freedom, by promising a dignified life, and how their fate depends on their willingness to take it. Of course, tis the gift of a tyrant - Dementus' promise is illusory and begets slavery and violence. The tyrant is wise to use the language of freedom against others like him. No one, including his own cohort which profits from his rule, may point that out.

*

There are narrative quirks, too easy to pick out. At one point, Furiosa disappears but remains among her captors, and somehow no one recognizes her thenceforth. The vagueness of the Australian wasteland is intentional as before, but here it creates more narrative dissonance: the villainous tribes, all patriarchies, aren't aware of Furiosa's heavenly home, though they're experts on road scavenging gear. Their main occupation seems to be plotting against each other, but not scouting far enough to discover lush places.

There's a bit of shyness in only telling Furiosa's story. Fury Road was supposedly about Max, though Furiosa was far more interesting than him. Here, there's a better stand-in for Max, Praetor Jack, another capable wasteland runner. Jack takes some space away from Furiosa as she occupied Max's story in the first. Jack is an ounce more developed than Max, otherwise he is simply Furiosa with more muscle - ultimately, he's used as narrative contraption to make the hero pine and suffer for a love interest.

On the subject of spoiling mystique, Immortan Joe is less of a menacing tyrant now, thanks to being more vocal and present than in the first movie. Furiosa doesn't go for maximalism, but the shroud of secrecy which can make heroes and villains intriguing is thinner. This would not be an issue if we'd know more about Immortan and his Citadel - as it is, there's no attempt to build any community or tribe lore-wise. Another point which worked better for Max, because the road rage was the story and expectations for complex lore were low.

*

Literary brevity and excellent visual storytelling gave the first movie its own identity, divined and accepted by viewers who enjoy not knowing everything lore-wise. Furiosa is in a soft bind, because it does the same but lacks the novelty of Fury Road and its action sequences do not top the latter. This prequel wants to experiment with more dialogue, but extra verbiage can detract from implicit characterization, and the final recipe is less spicy. Fury Road has the ineffable "je ne sais quoi" of visual storytelling, unapologetic road trip and minimalist worldbuilding - Furiosa has all that minus the novelty.

Fury Road's "Witness!" and "I live, I die, I live again" weren't just cool mantra. They're war prayers saying how subjects in a certain "community" are brainwashed into accepting violence and death for the glory of an oppressor. Furiosa has nothing so charming - Dementus' speech is poignant, but less memorable, and I think there was a conscious effort to not try to "compete" with the previous movie's meme-like playfulness.

Furiosa wants to expand on the mystique of the first, but ends up flat on the consistency of its world. Furiosa's home would be great to know about more, but the story meanders through other locations and tribes, barely detailed and feeling insubstantial. Characters abound, but none gets a proper history except the hero. She and the adversary meet in the end for brief verbal sparing, a welcome moment of tension between hero and villain, without essential revelations beyond Dementus' established nihilism.

Ultimately, Furiosa is not inferior to Fury Road, just a bit of a different breed lacking the newness of its predecessor. Fury Road holds the advantage - it brought a cult classic into the present with vigorous visual storytelling, lacking character depth but not heart.

Point is, Furiosa was already a hero in Fury Road. Her origin tells a similar story, but with too many characters, forgettable or not developed enough in a script which seems shy to do so instead of being intentional, as the first. Like Fury Road, it may have been impactful with a similar minimalist vibe and putting visual storytelling first. As it is, it may stand on its own better detached from its sequel. Furiosa has almost everything it needs - a fantasy-inspired post-apocalypse, cool drifter-heroes to love, impressive stunts. Its major quirk is lacking Fury Road's novelty, and the only reason it's not a phenomenon as the Mad Max reboot.

Wolfenstein 2 (TNC) is a game in constant counter-balance.

• Its violence is extreme and sometimes off-putting.

• But the violence is justified thematically, and makes for excellent action gameplay.

• The gameplay is interrupted by drawn-out "exploration" scenes around a submarine.

• But excellent pulp writing keeps momentum.

• The end is a double-edged sword: pricked by corporate blunder but excellent as catharsis and sequel bridge.

Violence and catharsis

Wolf 2 begins with two unsettling pulp scenes.

The first involves killing one of BJ's - the protagonist - friends in a shocking manner. The other is a piece of domestic violence and animal cruelty meant to establish BJ's relationship with his caricature father.

The scenes are poignant, powerful in their pulp intent, but extreme and unnecessary - the story and the hero's motivation function perfectly without them. Detached from the protagonist's purpose, they are shocking for the sake of being shocking, even trite.

But Wolfenstein pulls heartstrings with calculated manipulation. It would commit a sin of style and storytelling to be so obvious with its violence if not for the excellent writing, the self-awareness, the self-referential absurd plot.

Still, Wolf 2 profits from a weak narrative cliche - killing a character dear to the protagonist just as he's about to recover. A dramatic diversion meant to spur BJ on his revenge quest, dare I say pointless and settling for shock value.

*

Unpleasant the scenes may be, they establish the pulp tone of the narrative, the emotional impetus for revenge and justice when dealing with oppression.

It may seem paradoxical, but the solution to enjoying something like Wolfenstein may be reveling in its violence. Revenge placed in the right context may be engaging and cathartic.

In Wolfenstein, visual violence remains shocking and potentially demoralizing. By contrast, when justified, the same violence is the catalyst for moving forward, for seeking justice.

*

It helps that violence against humans can be emotionally-charged and unsettling. BJ speaks violence well while staying rational, and delivers bullet-shaped tirades and revolution-sized counter-arguments.

Games which deal with less personal enemies may lack a strong emotional reason for revenge. Doom has less emotional strength, because its enemies are impersonal demons, more numerous than humanoid soldiers.

Violence against demons is a given and explicit in its evil nature - easily understood, dispassionate, easy to dispatch. Wolfenstein - the one made by Machine Games - carries emotional power because violence is done by humans against humans. The script is pulpy, done with care and panache, spiffy enough to support both violence and emotion.

Narrative quirks

A pity that Wolf's intro sequence feels like a narrative obstacle, blocking agile movement for too long. Like peaceful exploratory scenes, it would work better by being shorter. BJ is confined to a wheelchair, but the mechanical impact of limited mobility is not novel, as it may have been in the previous game.

Afterward, Wolfenstein picks up to become a most precise action game, slowed by drawn-out exploration sequences around the submarine base of operation. The downtime makes sense, but the exploratory escapades reveal rewards which don't always make up for being kept away from action. The exploration works to help connect BJ - and the player - to his friends, but some bog down the brutal-paced action romp. Cutscenes may be skipped and the same feature should be extended to intermission scenes to let the player return to what matters - action.

Thankfully, most can be skipped, unlike the scene toward the end, where BJ must make three correct choices in order to stay alive. Suddenly, Wolf 2 has found its RPG proclivities, and made them tedious. Even though close to the end, the scene is a major flow-breaker, and should have been shorter and linear.

*

Thankfully, The New Colossus scores colossally on action design to make up for its narrative bumps.

• Fighting is fast, precise, with punchy feedback and various abilities to keep momentum.

• Enemy animations react to impact and use stagger states to reflect firepower.

• Guns feel hefty, though the shotgun lacks the impact of a Doom double-barrel.

After Doom Eternal moved action games forward, the only essential feature lacking from Wolf 2 is a similar dash. The game uses its own dash, not inferior, useful in other ways, but missing the impact and the utility of the Doom version. Like Eternal, Wolf 2 balances parameters of speed, impact and reaction to an almost perfect degree, a brutal carousel which remains engaging start to finish.

BJ and his political friends

BJ was always likeable implicitly, thanks to his anti-fascist day job. Wolf 2 ups the humanity by making him caring, obsessive in his freedom-loving ways, a dedicated friend and father, just a bit controversial.

From an impersonal head grimacing when hurt, BJ is now a person. Gentle to his friends, brutal to his enemies, eager to fight Nazis and criticize potential socialist allies with fervor.

The game pulls a simple and effective trick in characterization: BJ is both a specimen Nazis would appreciate, and a dedicated anti-fascist.

His childhood, plagued by the man who abuses his family, gets a pass on pulp principles - extreme, unpleasant, effective. BJ's father is a fascist poster-dad. He could be the final boss in a social and violent encounter in the present game.

Thankfully, BJ has a chance to make amends for his father's fanaticism. The reckoning is half-gameplay half-cutscene and may diminish its emotional impact by passively watching BJ pull the trigger.

*

Ideologically, BJ does not have to like everyone, but sharing the burden of revolution is welcome. His victory doesn't stand alone, but on the shoulders of his friends.

These friends have vivid personalities thanks to glowing pulp prose, making downtime sections easier to bear. TNC tries to be balanced in its approach to human resources.

BJ's friends are a motley band of nationalities, more or less able in body and mind. Not all have time for better character development, but they lend credence that anti-fascist attitudes are widespread regardless of color and nationality.

For extra impact, a soon-to-be ex-Nazi joins the fray from the beginning, and a loud Southern socialist preacher will meet BJ with fighting words. The game's efforts to cover ground for ethnicity and factions are successful, if on the nose - or the buttocks in this case, with a particular sex scene.

BJ's comrades are experts in different fields, but the devs wouldn't translate their knowledge in gameplay. This leads to a quirky mechanic where BJ - and the player - manually decode Enigma messages to locate enemy commanders. The minigame is tedious, doesn't make sense character-wise, and should be an enigma itself.

*

One scene works to give Blazkowicz more contrast, complexity.

BJ meets a gang of socialist freedom fighters, and doesn't waste time to accuse them of inaction, though they're doing plenty when the verbal sparing ensues. His freedom-loving patriotism is more flavor, though, a bit of bravado. At the end of the tirade, both are fighting for freedom.

The script has a lot to discuss: about how Americans might have given up on the ideal of freedom, how some welcomed the oppressors. About how Nazis prefer certain skin colors to others, and how BJ himself is a fine specimen, social differences aside.

While BJ and the preacher are arguing about civil rights and revolution, someone is playing nostalgic Jazz, the backdrop for steamy banter between a socialist - preacher nonetheless - and BJ's more traditionalist view.

The scene works, if a bit obvious. Jazz in crescendo, bullets flying back and forth, and the noise of ideology. In this corner, socialism, claiming the original revolution but a bit tired, in danger of giving up. In the opposite, BJ's relentless will to fight, arguing for the draft, calling the preacher and his group degenerate moonshiners to top it off.

The scene tries to symbolize the luxury of debate while other people never had it, but the point is faint: BJ and the socialists are both fighting with fervor. They've not given up, so their sparing is surface-level, tension release, oozing pulp flavor and excellent fighting words.

For now, they'll ignore ideology, argue in good faith, and fight side by side. Hopefully, when the war is over, those differences won't drive them against each other.

Violence and style

Wolfenstein was never apologetic or controversial in how it integrates politics and violence. The Germans had given up or became complacent, and TNC plays with a timeline where Americans enjoy the same conundrum. Part of the critique is America renouncing its ideal of freedom, though it can be difficult not to when the enemy has used nukes. There's the obvious stench of collaboration, with the Klan being prime Nazi allies, scolded for not speaking German.

Tarantino fans will feel at home in TNC. Like his writing, the dialogue is a masterful combo of pulp and naturalist but piercing words, spitfire quotable liners sharpened with brevity. Characters deliver quips and battle cries that make cutscenes and dialogue enjoyable, un-skipable.

To be fair, some humor in modern Wolfenstein is heavy-handed. But it's calculated, interplayed with emotional scenes. Wolfenstein knows what it's made of: pulp violence, tempered crude humor, idealism laced with romance. The script is absurd and naturalist at the same time, knowing where to tap the thematic break.

Alongside the precise action, I appreciate the heavy use of poetic license. BJ will take liberties with his monologues, delivering nostalgic and saddened lines in praise of Caroline. More poetry, sometimes punctured by lack of hope, than Hollywood prose.

Wolf 2 is a modern game in terms of writing: it uses modern language, but without sacrificing vernacular. Meaning, most characters are easy to distinguish via their language. The dialogue is functional, it delivers plot, but remains interesting, intriguing thanks to its playfulness.

The corporate revolution will be streamed

Ironically, the game's ending is pricked by corporate greed. After dealing with one major antagonist, the anti-fascist dream team delivers their speech in one of the most intriguing moments of the story. The speech is good, the timing is perfect, the pay-off is worth it. In the worst moment possible, Bethesda decided to interject their name during the speech, presumably to prove their support for the anti-fascist cause.

But this diminishes the importance and impact of the moment, which should be free of corporate branding. In Nazi America, the revolution is televised - or at least it starts that way - and the suits are there to prove how righteous the corporation is.

Instead of letting the moment, the payoff and the speech run their course and breathe on their own, we have to put up with corporate logos and be reminded how everything is for sale. The revolution is supposed to be a liberation movement of the people. If the corporation would have self-awareness, it would stay away from branding its name on something that should be free of greed.

Game design lessons

The joy of movement

BJ might start the story in a wheelchair, but he'll soon gain the gift of movement, alongside the gift of gab. BJ's movement is only good enough. There are no revelatory movements, as Doom Eternal's combination of speed and dash, but enough for what BJ needs. BJ uses dash to blast through enemies and weak walls, but it should be augmented with a proper straight movement in every direction.

Action is better with akimbo

You can dual-wield any weapon in Wolf 2. The mechanic is seamless and natural, as if action games have done it thousands of times before.

Games tend to avoid akimbo because of the difficulty imbalance and making each weapon function properly as a pair.

Wolfenstein 2 wears two weapons on its sleeves to deliver dual-mounted justice like the best retro... 80s and 90s action movies.

Wolfenstein looks pretty in pulp

The story and writing in Wolf 2 are serious and peppered with playful language and poignant events. Action games may be the last to need fine-tuned pulp writing and emotion, but Machine Games is a studio which cares about prose. Some peaceful intermission sections may be drawn out, but excellent writing keeps them afloat.

How to improve Wolfenstein 2

For its pulp action bent, Wolf 2 is an almost perfect game. If not for the following quirks, it would be a finely-tuned classic, relative to its genre and scope.

Skip the enigma minigame

The match-two minigame needed to play extra missions is tedious. BJ has friends aplenty to decode the locations for new mission - no wonder none wants to play this bore fest.

Less talking, more stomping

I appreciate the effort put into Wolfenstein's script and care for dialogue. A few story and downtime exploration scenes overstay their welcome, though hey fit thematically. Wolf 2 excels as an action romp, and I cared less for BJ's wandering around the submarine. For Wolfenstein 3, please make downtime exploration scenes shorter or skippable.

Shorten the court scene

No, dream or hallucinatory sequences which trick the player but don't matter otherwise are not good narrative design. Make a point of crushing the player's hope by integrating the theme into the proper narrative. Don't waste time with a prolonged and disingenuous action scene only to laugh in the player's face and pad the game - it makes for lazy game design.

The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed and I wish Stephen King would have followed their story with its original charm of magic realism and pervading mystery. King may have partially denounced The Gunslinger as a somewhat juvenile exercise, but it remains one of his more imaginative works.

There's a fit setup for a hero and companion journey: the lone rugged wanderer shaped by a dramatic past, trekking through desert and decrepit towns in search of a larger-than-life antagonist, a magic realist world with weird elements. And sexually-charged encounters with every single woman in the story to delineate The Dark Tower from classic fantasy.

Mystery surrounds the gunslinger and his travels, as it should a story of magic realism. The Western setting is enticing because Westerns bring the allure of controlled chaos, no-man's-land mixed with the creaky march of civilization. The Dark Tower plays the trope by adding fantasy feats, seemingly without restraint for logic, but mostly bearable in this first book.

The gunslinger, later named Roland, begins the same, as a mystery ripe to unfold. King describes his gear - water bag, guns detailed with lurid adverbs. There's a case to be made for how many cool protagonists are author self-inserts. Here, the case is not clear: King himself appears later in the series in a quirky dismantling of the fourth wall and Roland may as well be any rugged Western hero.

The world's not much of a place in this first book, a wasteland of desert and decrepit towns, but the dearth of characterization fuels the mystery. More than fantasy and sci-fi, surrealism and magic realism thrive on feeding details gradually, on resolving the mystery through symbolism. The Gunslinger achieves this through sparse physical worldbuilding, intentional or not. Later books resolve or add to the mystery in equal parts, not always satisfying.

The fellowship of the gunslinger

The ingredients are classic, but made effective by not wasting time and staying brief - King works with brevity in a way which many of his other books do not. Details are fed in pulpy bursts, through dialogue, lore bits or intriguing flashbacks (minus the one in our world).

A gruff cowboy, not easily startled, emotionally distant at first, questing for an elusive villain, "his body, festooned with guns and water." A fellowship springs up when Roland meets a young boy just as secretive as the hero and the antagonist at first. Roland takes a liking to the boy fast, becoming mentor and companion.

The world is barren, an offshoot of Earth, but laden with mystery and fantasy bits not always explained. Liking this world may depend on your openness to fantasy and keeping secrets secret. King seems to be making some details along the way - then again, this approach keeps the intrigue. This first story does well to not mix more than basic ingredients - the hero, the protege, the antagonist and his minions, the barren world, the trippy and sexual encounters.

The antagonist shares the mystery, is sensuous in his malefic presence, and may as well be the devil. For most of the story we don't know who this elusive man in black is, and why Roland scours the desert for him. But the threat is present from start to end - everywhere Roland arrives, the villain has been and seems to draw the hero to their ultimate fate like complementary principles caught in a roundabout.

More so, as befit good stories of heroes and villains, the two meet eventually and palaver - discuss - their conundrum. The antagonist's monologue about science and ineffability may seem trite and likely solve nothing, but it works to enrich the shroud of mystery and make the reader pine for sequels.

Western fantasy realism

On the Western hero's journey, the series began with a promising trek, but never reached something as momentous as, say, Lord of the Rings. In defense, writing something like TLOTR implies massive planning, a feat which The Dark Tower lacks. Unfortunate is not that TDT pales by comparison - most fantasy does - but that later books vary so much in quality and vision, while TLOTR went full steam ahead on a hero and companion journey which became a classic.

The potential fits: a James Bond-like protagonist, a magic world of mystery at every turn, fantasy and surrealist elements which King sometimes inserts without care for logic or consistency. But a consistent hero's journey may require careful planning and a plot less meandering, shaped on events through which the protagonists find the opportunity for wisdom.

The mood is enticing, a fantasy magic realist blend of Western, gothic and horror which King revisits in later books, but rarely as sweet as in The Gunslinger and Wizard and Glass. I consider this the heart of the series: a mystery unfolding across a world like ours but not quite, symbolism and metaphor which don't always find a reasonable explanation.

I can't fault King for the narrative style - I prefer the chaotic lack-of-planning approach to writing myself - but the first and fourth books of The Dark Tower deserved a better series, especially with the advantage of magic surrealism. The Gunslinger thrives on King's more interesting prose, less prone to modern literary trends, more poetic. The following books retain the lyricism in various amounts when adventuring through the fantasy multiverse.

The writing balances showing and telling, while adverbs abound, though King has technically denounced them. Action scenes are fiery, keeping momentum, rarely overstaying their welcome, with a flow which I don't remember from any other King books, save this series.

The princess is in another Dark Tower

The book is pricked by standard issues: women characters are a bit incidental - one exists to screw around with the gunslinger and help him shape his past, then perish by his guns; the second, an intriguing villain, introduced by describing her breasts, a shadow of religious dogma and villainy looming over the foreign gunslinger.

The third, a succubus which divines the future for Roland in a sexually-charged encounter, where they both extract something from the other - a fortune teller bargaining for sexual favors. All three of Roland's encounter's read as fantasies, and only one is likeable. The women in Roland's past which are likeable perish in terrible ways. Women characters get better in following stories. Here, they read a bit like the remnants of fetishes. Say what you will about social sensibilities, this is a book where only one woman gets by after forcefully extracting pleasure from the hero.

A pity The Dark Tower began with a bang and ended with a whimper. Alongside Wizard and Glass, The Gunslinger is more limited in scope, but focused and better for it. The rugged hero, the mysterious villain, the desert and its towns, the trippy fantasy and mentions of our world made a story that understood its scope.

At the same time, it's commendable that King wanted to expand this world in the sequels. No telling how much he wrote the series for himself and how much was fan pressure, but more structure could've transformed The Dark Tower into a Western fantasy classic. It had everything needed except for King's indecision about the ending and questionable fourth wall shenanigans.

If this book holds the potential of a magic realist land where I was comfortable with not uncovering the mystery, the fourth book is where the potential reaches apex. That should have been the culmination of the magic realist adventure. Wizard and Glass took the formula of The Gunslinger and created its own world, less reliant on ours as the other sequels may be. The fourth book is also where King proved he could write a good Western, a feat which he wouldn't repeat in most books.

Even through its failings to challenge more robust works - like TLOTR - I agree how often the joy of experience and stories stands in the journey, not the end. Except when the end appears so undecided and unsatisfactory as the whimper of this story.

Though I enjoy the lack of more traditional narrative structure, this is what the series needed. Focus on what made it particular - magic realism, a world close to ours but never so. The first and the fourth book do it best, keeping the weird fiction in check with its own logic. The other books meander loosely between standard Stephen King modern fiction, fantasy and haphazard weird elements which eschew logic, not always relevant as metaphor and symbolism.

Like all hybrid romps, The Great Circle carries the sweetness of choice, the joy of knowing objectives may be open to stealth, thievery, exploration.

The intro is mild, unless you're sweet on the vintage movies. Even so, gameplay is sparse, lacking the choice of the adventure proper.

Fitting how TGC respects its adventure DNA and the first real gameplay involves gathering artifacts and conducting an investigation. Not revolutionary, but a welcome intro to the game's open-ended influences.

An Indy title could have slipped between bland adventure or tedious action, but TGC is inspired and takes lessons from any fitting source:

• Exploration and finding secrets from hybrids and adventures

• Puzzles, mostly easy to solve to keep momentum

• Simple melee combat and shooting action, built on Machine Games' excellent experience.

The Great Circle's hybrid gameplay is not as evolved as full-metal Immersive Sims - Deus Ex, Prey and their ilk - but a lightweight version of action, stealth and exploration designed on brevity.

An Indy of few words

The script is less punchy than Machine Games' previous fight with the Nazis in Wolfenstein 2, but anyone wandering in from the movies - the good, vintage ones - will enjoy it. It's lighter thematically, not stylistically. The Nazis are the enemy in both games, but while Wolf 2 shines with pulpy quips about ideology and social issues, TGC is simpler - Nazis haven't occupied America and dealing with them is just as straightforward.

Indiana Jones movies are vehicles for adventure romps, for travelling the world and enjoying how Indy escapes deadly traps. His advancement as complex character was never priority, but Machine Games - as with prior titles - has the writing to infuse him with likeability.

There's no attempt to unpack Indy in detail - minus the accusations of him plundering native civilizations - or to make him irrelevant. This is a pure Indiana Jones adventure - globe-trotting, whip-swinging, Nazi-punching.

The change is better justified because Indy was never much of a complex character. As many ludic heroes, he's the means for players to round the world and uncover treasure or cause chaos.

As other protagonists of modern culture, the attitude suits him. His prime concern is uncovering ancient secrets and their potential magic. Everything else - romantic relationships or his teaching career - can wait indefinitely.

Not pushing Indy to be an emotional nice-bloke is the right call, because he's always been more action than explanation. Good writing may or may not have worked to make him more sensitive. We have a clear example in Lara Croft, who's been an equivalent to Indy from her debut.

Making her more sensitive and emotional worked, not without sacrificing part of her original identity. When our heroes need therapy, the change is risky - they have to gain empathy while remaining people of action. Good writing can deliver but not all heroes need be puzzles of parental estrangement and unresolved trauma.

The trials of immersive sims

The Great Circle's immersive sim charm is balanced as all action-stealth hybrids should be, in light amounts. We find less options than in complex hybrids, focused and defined to not detract from Indy's personality as a dashing treasure hunter.

Persuasion was never his strong whip - apart from it, Indy travels with a welcome arsenal of choice: sneaking, alternate routes, secondary goals, simple upgrades, and punching and shooting when the enemy calls for it.

Complex immersive sims use extensive upgrades to bypass various obstacles - Indy's Sim tackle is minimalist, easier to grasp, suited to his style.

His modus operandi is immediate - he often finds what he needs nearby. The design may be simplified for anyone coming over from Deus Ex and the like, but fits a game bent on more traditional adventuring.

Chests are boring, though - Indy often finds their solution nearby, without much deduction involved.

Game design lessons

Minimalist immersive sim

A minimalist upgrade system, easy puzzles, and a linear approach to goals and hubs keep the adventure going.

Indy can choose how he deals with enemies - fists, weapons (lethal or not), stealth. Combat is fast, precise. Unlike in Skyrim, punching is a viable way to defeat enemies in a timely manner.

Weapons, lethal or otherwise

Indy doesn't shy away from shooting, but weapons don't have to kill. You can flip them around and butt enemies in the face, presumably leaving them alive.

A photo camera

Part of the joy of immersive sims is finding alternative uses for items and skills which may be rare in video games.

The camera doesn't add much - it's used to complete objectives - but as a nice bonus, it offers experience when you take pictures of interest points. A pleasant shutterbug diversion with gameplay benefits.

Creative writing is the craft of stories, real or fictional.

Storytelling is also useful in copywriting, which is part creative writing, part psychology, part sales.

... and a worthy endeavor if you love writing. As any skill, creative writing can begin with minimalism and a simple structure.

1. Good writing is about finding the right words

When in doubt, remember good writing is about finding the right word at the right moment - not the simplest, not the quirkiest.

The best word is sometimes the simplest or the most complex - it matters not.

Focusing on simplicity and the right words is the best way for beginners to start writing.

2. Start with a simple sentence

Relax, find the right words, write a simple sentence. Follow with another one which flows naturally. Continue until you have a paragraph.

It's essential to begin, to connect with the mood of your topic or story, and to deliver work. Dreams of grandeur and perfection can wait.

If a story is stubborn, see its core idea, event or character and write a simple sentence. Evoke mood or action, define your protagonist or provide characterization for the world.

For content writing, beginners need one "hard rule": introduce your topic, support it with arguments and march on.

Write short paragraphs, between one and three phrases, and short chapters and headings, between three to five reading minutes.

3. Start with vignettes, write short form often

A vignette is a scene or mix of scenes of anything we want them to be.

Vignettes include action, dialogue, lore, description, stories, whatever tickles your pen or keyboard.

If nothing else, vignettes are useful for worldbuilding, because they escape the three-act structure.

4. Learn vivid words to write vivid prose

Vivid words are wonderful to convey stronger impressions in a limited space.

Vivid words and power words are not always the same. Examples like free, best, improve, may create a strong impression based on context.

Vivid words carry a potent sensation regardless of context. They get to the point faster, offer clearer impressions, and help avoid rambling.

Even if your style or genre deny them, pulpy words sustain brevity, saying more while writing less - any medium can benefit from their magic.

Specific styles or genres which rely on vivid words are noir and pulp.

More of a genre, Noir delights in pulp, but it's doable with simple words.

Pulp may be both, but we can adapt the writing style to any genre - noir, fantasy, sci-fi, maybe less to realism.

• Learn vivid words. Make the thesaurus your friend.

• Read and watch pulp fiction. The writing style, not the movie. The movie excels at pulp dialogue, but don't limit yourself. Read and watch hard-boiled prose regardless of medium and genre.

• Write symbolism in all its forms. Pepper your writing by not revealing explicit ideas. Let cool dialogue do the talking.

5. You must create your own style

If you love writing, you inevitably move toward shaping your own style - essential to give your writing its identity and write what you love.

Emulating other writers works for beginners, but it's essential to turn your writing into a process and set it free.

• Read and write literature, cinema, media which inspire you.

• Write in a space you feel relaxed. The more relaxed the more you focus. the more you immerse yourself and the reader in your work.

• Experiment with style and genre, mix them based on setting and lore.

• Write something you love.

• Consider: if your work would be written by someone else, would it inspire you?

6. Imagination and creativity need time-space

The mind is a machine primed for discovery, and yearns for inspirational ideas and dreaming.

Imagination, creativity, inspiration depend on relaxation and letting go. Their optimal state is a mind devoid of pestering, with time and space to bubble with ideas and connect them.

Reading and watching media which inspires is important, but daydreaming is just so.

• Give yourself time and space - write in an environment where you feel safe and relaxed.

• Let go to make space for imagination.

• Phase out the surrounding world and connect to the mood, the feeling of your story and words.

7. Write what you love

• "Write what you know" is an ever-lasting cliche of the craft. The natural principle which sustains writing is "Write what you love."

• "Write what you know" is a soft rule for novice writers. For beginners, it's best to choose a subject or story you love and use a simple style.

• "Write what you love" is the unspoken principle of writers who are doing it for the love of writing, for the sake of storytelling.

• 'Write what you know' can be misunderstood as requiring expertise. Novice writers who bump into this "rule" may think they should stop unless they're experts in their topic.

• 'Write what you love' skips the expertise "necessity" straight into passion. If you love something, write with simplicity, edit and refine the feeling after.

8. Paint pictures

Write vivid words to instill strong impressions on the senses. Show, don't tell to help place the reader in a more active role.

Showing means describing a place, idea, event, character, lore through implicit means: behavior, feeling, impression. Through showing, readers experience the joy of deciding meaning on their own.

When writing a scene - especially fantasy and sci-fi or their offshoots - see it as a photo, painting, or cinematic shot.

• Let the scene breathe on its own, without forcing an impression.

• Feel and "paint" the scene - light, colors, mood, aroma, sound, feeling, movement.

• Maintain brevity and write details in vivid words - essential impressions only.

9. How to write dialogue

Dialogue in stories speaks Naturalism first, Realism second.

"Realist" dialogue is the one spoken in our world in different cultures with specific vernacular.

Naturalism is a world's ability to create its own identity, organic rules connected logically across the story.

Naturalism speaks with a patois of realism, but adapted to story and world. Not every story uses our brand of realism. Doing so makes fictional worlds sound similar and lose their identity.

Fictional "realism" is curated - the writer decides what form it takes. Otherwise, we find raw realism in documentaries.

• Begin with simple statements.

• Use words specific to the style, culture, period you're writing.

• Mix implicit and explicit language - let characters talk to each other, not reveal everything to the reader.

10. Write love letters to friends - conversational writing

Imagine you have a great friend.

Your friend asks about something you love, and will listen enraptured, like no one has listened before.

Behold conversational writing - accessible language and focus on essential details.

The principle has limits:

• Creative writing is conversational until it bumps naturalism, because dialogue and prose defy realistic chatter - language must be natural, accessible, not simplified for a technical manual.

• Copywriting is conversational by knowing your topic and audience, speaking to them in friendly language - familiar, informational, functional, not demeaning and patronizing.

For copy and content, remember how your target audience speaks, and tailor your writing to make it understandable.

For creative writing, imagine you're chatting to a good friend. Write as if your friend is enraptured and listens to your every word.

11. Be your readers' friend

You have a friend who loves you, but you keep ignoring him or her. You meet your friend to narrate all the adventures you've been through, all the fun you've had.

Your friends may listen enraptured, but wish they would've been alongside for the adventure.

Instead of telling your friends what a spicy life you live, you should invite them in.

But, don't tell readers everything about the world and its characters explicitly. Pepper details everywhere, let readers divine the meaning and personality on their on. Plant bits of information - how characters act and speak, how events unfold, how the world feels.

Pester not your readers with detail dumps. They'll thank you for accepting them as active participants to the story, because our minds are natural exploration machines and delight in discovery.

• Skip over-explaining - let characters, dialogue and mood do the talking

• Practice replacing adjectives and adverbs with vivid nouns and verbs

• Pepper symbolism everywhere

12. Kickstart characters by making them cliches and archetypes

Starting characters as cliches is well if you maintain key principles to shape their own destiny.

Interesting people - and characters - have basic features in common:

• They are smart or become smarter.

• They are determined or learn to be so.

• They may start as pawns in someone else's story but grow to direct their own path.

13. Cool characters exist through relationships and dimensionality

Relationships are the way characters feel and interact with each other and lore elements.

Dimensionality is the time and space characters occupy, and their impressions about past, present, future. Characters may not exist across the story timeline but they have an opinion, a relationship with every facet of time.

Imagine relationships as a web, constellation or branching tree. Draw characters and ideas as stars, and their relationships as connecting branches. Between the stars, note core ideas which define their relationship.

14. Complexity from simplicity

Complex projects and ideas can be overwhelming at first glance, so we must understand what makes them tick.

Complex storytelling results from mixing simple words, character traits, bits of lore.

Efface worry about writing by focusing on component parts: topic, mood, chapters, theme, headlines.

Stories are assembled from simple ideas:

• Three major acts. For needed complexity, split each act into three more until you have a story.

• One core trait for each character. Characters may begin as archetypes.

• Lore - simple ideas, events, locations. Spread them through the story, no scenes crowded with details.

• One central theme for story, one for each character.

• Style - short sentences built on simple words.

15. Brevity

... means getting to the point, not simplifying needlessly.

Brevity has multiple applications:

• Brevity of style - how simplistic or complicated the mode of expression is.

• Brevity of story - one or multiple threads and themes.

• Brevity of plot - moment to moment action, number of events which ravel the story.

Get intimate with brevity:

• Write short-form content often - copywriting, vignettes, short stories.

• Study examples of brevity-obsessed writing: ads, social captions, emails, pulp scripts etc.

• Learn vivid words to say more in a shorter space.

• When in doubt, write a simple sentence.

• Refine to let shine the mood and story.

16. Focus on naturalism

Naturalism is a story's ability to create its own world and consistent rules.

For brevity's sake, we'll define naturalism as in-world realism.

Worlds and characters are enticing and natural by flowing through self-evolution, guided by consistent rules.

• Use language to fit the setting. Hear and feel how characters speak naturally in their world.

• People should speak to each other, not the reader (challenging).

• When in doubt, write simple dialogue. Let it simmer, edit with fitting words.

In truth, realism is an impression in fiction. Whether you write from inspiration or plan everything, a story should diverge from the rules of our world to create its own and evolve.

17. The eternal cliche of persistence and higiene

... is true because we want to integrate writing in the daily life of fleshy creatures.

Your writing flows with your mind and body. To keep writing and imagination flowing, stay in motion with short breaks.

• Write short form - vignettes, plot ideas, copywriting etc.

• Write often, write what you love, write in focused bursts.

• Spend under 35 minutes on the chair. Get up, stretch, daydream, watch the horizon, take deep breaths.

18. Do stories matter?

Yes and no, depending on context.

The purpose of good art is to be inspirational. A picture may speak 1000 words (language conversion rate applies) but a pulpy story may stir emotions and inspire action.

Stories impress us when relevant to a personal goal, or when well told and intriguing - balanced between stimulation, downtime and wisdom.

In copywriting, stories matter to reveal the benefits of what we're writing about - often bent on selling.

If you want a story - fictional, real or content - to matter, make it relevant by knowing your topic and your audience. Fictional stories may skip relevancy if they balance stimulation, downtime and the bit of wisdom we gain at the end.

19. Break rules with glee

Rules, principles and technicalities are useful for beginners. Good writing is about finding the best words, but rules can prove obstacles and limit imagination.

The more rules we maintain, the more we sound like everyone else, or like AI - standardized, formulaic, cliched.

The road to better writing is paved with passion, persistence and letting go. To be an effective wordsmith, write what you love until breaking rules feels natural.

20. Is creative writing worth it?

If you're doing it for the love of writing and storytelling, yes.

If you write to expand your financial opportunities, yes. In the age of AI and info saturation, good writers can find a suitable niche, especially if there's a quirky human behind the words.

If you find a better creative outlet to express yourself, perhaps. Writing remains potent for self-expression, mind-expansion and to enhance imagination. And you'll need it to apply to all the jobs you may or may not love.

21. Be playful - do it for the love of writing

If something is worth doing, it is worth doing well. Fiction or not, focus on it as if nothing else exists.

Be playful - play with words, meaning, symbolism, lore, weird stories.

A story or a piece of copy flows better if you ignore external influences and focus on the writing, on how the world or the topic feels and evolves naturally.

A woman named Karen fishes you out of a river. Beside her campfire, she wants you to find someone, perhaps a friend.

You follow the forest trail into crumbling ruins. Inside, you travel back in time, to a place modeled after ancient Rome and Greece.

Its inhabitants may not "sin" or commit wrongdoings. One such act will trial all to death. You must find a way to return to the present - and you may do it by "sinning" or being patient, exploring and befriending the people.

To be immortal is to sin

One lesson you may get from The Forgotten City (TFC) is "sinning" can be beneficial.

In TFC you go back in time to "sin", if you wish. "Sinning" can be driven by temptation and be a functional mechanic - it keeps the story rolling when you're stuck.

The game makes illicit acts enticing, sometimes explicitly but more because narrative design thrives from experimentation. A clever play on human nature's propensity toward shiny objects.

Patience, exploration and investigation are more fun, though. Stealing or attacking a certain character can move the plot faster, but will take away the joy of discovery, patience, helping people, bringing justice to the guilty, deduction.

TFC builds on the tradition of classic Adventure games, but improves it with lateral design:

• Many goals have more than one solution.

• Dialogue, running, attacking are all viable to progress at different points.

• Time-travel means virtually everyone will complete the story with ease. Though less important, I appreciate how the best ending requires the most patience.

The game is shy of encouraging "failure" - for example, by making stealing "illegal" - but is a prime example of the power of games in using choose-your-own-adventure branching time-bending lateral design.

Sin and its virtues

Should everyone in a city suffer capital punishment for one person's sins?

Probably not, regardless of the gravity of the sin. The Forgotten City begins with this premise and the reasoning will be explained at the end.

TFC teaches illicit acts may be beneficial - at least in terms of narrative design, avoiding death and sheer novelty: a stolen item or piece of info gleaned through lying may help solve a problem.

TFC does impose consequences for faulty behavior - stealing, trespassing, attacking people - but through time-travel the results may be useful.

The game may seem to make the point the end justifies the evil, but the concession works as gameplay mechanic.

• In this ancient city, you can lie, steal, attack people, but the end is not nigh unless you die.

• You can escape death by sprinting and going back in time, then use the acquired information or item to progress.

• The gameplay mechanic becomes part of the philosophical premise - is it justified to condemn others to death knowing - or hoping - you'll save them later?

Enticing and accessible

The kicker with The Forgotten City is in posing pedestrian conundrums - should others be punished for one's sins, what constitutes a sin, how far should one go to prevent mass murder and one's own death - and packing them in an accessible Adventure.

There's no revelatory answer to questions beyond what players decide on their own. But that's because trying to impose answers in a game would be futile for something so volatile as human psychology and behavior.

TFC does try and does it in the best manner possible: the game can be "won" precisely by arguing against the idea of Utopia. More because of admitting how Utopia - at least in practice - requires a form of authoritarianism.

The city of debates

As befit the premise, we find the opportunity for debate with several characters.

We don't find revelations about human nature or about creating utopia, but debates - including Socratic ones - rarely offer revelations because of human propensity to entertain our feelings.

Knowing this but using lateral design, the writing makes some debates useful to progress, sometimes just intellectual exercises, all enticing.

They don't overstay their welcome and their flavor ads the necessary persuasion element to TFC's open-ended design.

A pity the Archeologist background is useless - most quests avoid it and ancient text is often translated without it.

*

We aren't told how utopia works in the world of the "god" which oversees this ancient city. A discussion of utopia would've been interesting, but that's beyond the initial premise.

To be fair, discussing how other entities have achieved utopia - a society described by the "god" as devoid of conflict - would have been useful as argumentation.

But we do get a glimpse of the answer - the all-seeing "god" of the city has a leader of his own. We can assume these "gods" have achieved utopia precisely through a form of strong leadership, perhaps authority bordering on dictatorship.

We can use this line of reasoning to debate against the experiment and to achieve the best ending.

Which is perhaps the proper moral argument: the people of the city will return to the imperfect mortal world where the human experiment continues without "divine" oversight.

Gilded zombies

The game does stumble a bit with its enemies and brief action scenes.

Action parts which require sprinting may be tedious when zombies box you in.

The game offers a convenient weapon for dealing with enemies, but reducing their number and making them easier to avoid would fix the action tedium.

Game design lessons

Narrative lateral design

Some goals in TFC may be solved in multiple ways in the same playthrough.

One session's failure is not permanent - the story continues and some goals are easier to fix with new information.

Open-ended difficulty

As important as lateral design, it's a pleasure to "fail" and be allowed to progress.

The ultimate failure, game-design wise, is dying. Everything else is an opportunity to learn (sometimes while the people of the city are dying).

Debates

The joy of gaining a bit of wisdom, while changing no one's mind. TFC doesn't owe such intellectual pleasures, being an Adventure first, but it could teach RPGs the joy of Socratic debates.

Disco Elysium is for:

• RPG lovers who accept the limitations of set player characters, and won't mind a linear main story.

• Good writing enthusiasts.

• Political animals. And pundits.

• Depressed and hopeful socialists.

• Advanced racists.

Disco Elysium is a bit like ideology. Sickly-sweet, tempting to consume in large bursts, somewhat disappointing after it’s been established.

DE is a promise of untapped possibility, perhaps RPG utopia. Just so, this adventure confuses complexity for choice, yet it may take it all away when least expected.

[Encyclopedia] Disco Elysium is also a game where the “hero” can sprint. Running with its existentialist bent, the game won't mention double-click may be used to sprint. Worse, you can simply press Caps Lock to enable sprint.

*

Like ideology, DE is prone to soft locking. We're giddy about our beliefs, ideas and ideologies. We think they may be easily put in practice, and how they'll achieve utopia, or shy of it. The system is established, we expect utopia to thrive, but society ends up in a soft lock.

It needs fiddling, with no guarantee for a smooth disco ride. We invest time in skills we don't believe in, yet the world and society avoid the perfection we dreamed of.

In Disco Elysium, I was giddy for the possibilities brought by so many skills and checks. But checks come with balances. DE is so adamant about them that it “forced” me to invest in skills I would happily ignore.

*

Sometimes, the investment paid off, though I was not giddy about it. Oftentimes, I would bypass a soft lock to bump into another. Idealist, pragmatist, moderate apologist - ride the political wave.

This attitude makes DE an ambitious, smart, well written ride. But also a piece of design in love with its own complexity. Thank Innocence it's this complexity which saves and makes the adventure worthwhile.

Complexity is Disco's - the game's and partially the music style - strength. I would combine some of its many skills into fewer ones with wider applications. Disco's ambition is commendable, but needs more focus.

Often, it'd make sense more than one skill should contribute to rate of success. DE isolates mental aspects too much. A large number of systems - our skills - is useful if used to support lateral gameplay, to enrich choice, not reduce it as DE often does.

The politics of politics

By choice, I tried to be a moderate. Disco Elysium offered a lesson in dissatisfaction - it wouldn't “let” me complete the political quest due to a failing skill check. An ideological flaw in game design, flirting with artificial difficulty.

My dialogue choices, however, decided I was a socialist, though nothing came of it. Alas, it was a label. Harry and I brought no revolution to Revachol.

Disco gives the impression of the political quests yielding major results. Ideology is no guarantee for utopia, regardless of opinion. I suspect the political quest would also end in dissatisfaction, as ideologies often do.

*

I tried to be a moderate out of pragmatism. Life-wise, extreme opinions alienate people, especially when you're a cop. Like all politics, centrism is derided - then again, it's the only compromise humans seem able to live comfortably with.

The disco detective may try to avoid politics, with various results. The giddy left-wing bent is mocked as the others - to a point where the game may seem cowardly for refusing to stand for its socialist proclivities.

For an RPG, even one with authorial intent, it’s the right call. DE is already lacking in some respects as an RPG - lack of protagonist choice, limited narrative branching, limited skill use.

Ironic how the same failed check kept me from bringing a disco club into existence. I was giddy about mixing disco and centrism, but the game would not relent.

Irony prevailed - I completed the story with unused skill points. A frustrating existential quirk, yet expected - choice paralysis is a common bump in RPGs.

A symbol of revolution

Disco Elysium’s existential stubbornness reigns its depressive setting. Humanity is doing its best to recover from a failed socialist revolution. Unions and corporations ram against each other, some people seem stuck in perpetual poverty, and cops, corrupt or not, try to keep order.

Some places make their own law. The game takes an expected but balanced stance to portraying its factions. Subtle favoritism persists, though the disco attitude is to be lenient if you find a shred of empathy regardless of ideology.

No surprise the “hero” is a cop - DE strives for moderation. Its authorial intent may begin with socialism, but the attitude remains moderate, choice-driven. Centrist. You’re a cop. You can be a fascist, communist, liberal or disco cop, but you have a crumb of choice for your politics. As the past shows, the choice may not count for much.

Harry is the cliche of the self-hating cop subjected to player choice. Kim, his partner, is the game’s first line of defense. His profile image makes him look like a saint and an interrogator - an empathetic cop.

Revacholians may not like cops - Kim doesn’t care, he likes Revachol. He’s reserved, pragmatical, empathetic above all. Harry struggles between ideology and existential dread. Kim does his job with focused professionalism guided by empathy.

*

Most characters begin with a familiar trope, enriched with details to make them complex, often conflictual. The perfect way to write so many people.

Joyce, the “ultra” neo-liberal lady is smart, driven, shy of ruthless. But also gentle, idealistic even. She is a caricature of her beliefs, as everyone else. She believes in a world of capital, markets directed by global entities.

Joyce remains one of the friendliest of Harry’s acquaintances because of her emotional intelligence. But she’s just one side of neoliberalism.

The other is the Sunday Friend, a mysterious mover of moralism and capital. The man is obsessed with cliched talking points on the importance of balanced economics, social order and employment. If let, he would monologue for hours on the essential role of globalist institutions.

Harry tries to educate himself by asking questions. Charles espouses the merits of global capital. Eventually, he offers Harry some attention, not before delivering the bullet points of organizing society like he’s repeated them endless times before.

Coalition Warship Archer is impersonal, a representative of global capital and Moralism. Not so much the entity itself, but its arm.

Conversing with CWA is stimulating. It holds the sweetness of intellectual debate, the pleasure of encyclopedic knowledge and the promise of a better future. But in its intellectualism, global Moralism may be detached from base material reality, where the poor and the working class may live.

*

Measurehead, the ultra-racist caricature, is interesting to listen to. I suspect his knowledge is memorized and repeated to impress, but devoid of substance. He may ramble for hours about racial differences, but likely because he’s otherwise empty.

Measurehead may not be as smart as he presents himself. His obsessions may be driven by trauma or ignorance, but his dedication to the cause of racism and stellar writing make him a fine curiosity, quality entertainment.

Evrart, the union leader, is smart, driven, opportunistic. I had difficulty grasping if he truly cares about his workers, but he plays his best act. Dealing with him is difficult - but a pushy union leader would not achieve much when the corporate mercenary steps in town.

When the deals are done, it’s impossible to like Evrart. He seems to fight equally for his people and to keep his own bottom warm. He tries to take advantage of Harry, mostly to his benefit. Evrart is a shepherd of the working class, with teeth.

The mega rich light-bending guy travels on the back - well, shipping containers - of the working class. He has difficulty communicating or relating to others. He won’t part with his money unless Harry pitches him with an investment proposal.

Harry sees the rich guy as bending light. The difference in net worth is so tremendous that laws of physics might not apply to the mega rich.

At first sight, the working class woman is just there. She’s poor, unassuming, casually browsing books without the energy to engage them at a deeper level. Her husband is missing.

Unsurprisingly, poverty and alcohol have found him. Not in a ditch, but close enough, dead for days without anyone seeming to care. Alone, with meager prospect for a better future, no working class consciousness to provide a community.

I’m disappointed how lack of class consciousness pervades Revachol, but only because it pervades humanity. Throughout the story, Harry finds advice about “doing it for the working class”. There’s no clear benefit for this, of course, except for the player’s moral satisfaction.

*

Harry is human. He meets people who often reflect his own loneliness and fear, seeming stuck in their past or the demon of poverty. Not everyone is so terribly alone, though.

The Hardie Boys may be a mob, but they’re a working gang watching out for each other, and presumably for Revachol.

The mercenaries which “trigger” Harry’s case are ruthless, but would take bullets for each other.

And behold, the cops. A motley band of professionals, vulgar, empathetic, even caring about Harry.

Riding on existentialism, little faith graces Elysium, but its people have found a sort of salvation in each other. They band together in violent or peaceful tribes, they fight the others. But many would rather die than abandon their community.

*

To the end, Disco Elysium may inspire sympathy and confusion.

The perpetrator of the crime we investigate is an old socialist revolutionary. He's avoided society for decades, caught in a past of purpose and community.

The man may be dealing with dementia. He is a relic, by choice, by hubris, or via idealism. He remembers the crimes part of the globalist regime has committed against his comrades.

This man fought and dreamed of a socialist revolution, and for what he perceived to be his peoples’ independence. Idealism, fervor, hubris, potential dementia and mass murder have haunted him for decades.

It’s easy to dismiss him as a decrepit murderer. But the story plays the right emotional strings, a fragile line between idealism and insanity to make him sympathetic. His comrades are gone, he has no love for global capital, so he’s refused integration into modern society.

Like everyone, he is a symbol. He fought for something, he refused to accept the order which killed his comrades, yet he stayed trapped in the past. He thought he’d bring an ounce of justice by shooting a corpo merc, yet nothing changes.

Global capital has won. Revachol is gliding between corporations, unions, cops and the working class, but at least it’s moving forward.

*

The elusive Phasmid may or may not exist. Harry may choose to believe in it or not, to motivate his investigation. If faith or curiosity win, Harry meets the Phasmid while dealing with the old revolutionary.

The old man never - or rarely - saw the Phasmid. He was trapped in his world of revolution, purpose and despair, blind to the magic around him. Harry finds this fragile magical creature through faith or curiosity.

The art of compromise

Less art, more inevitability and necessity.

Disco Elysium is a masterclass of compromise. To progress the main and side-stories, I found no choice but to improve skills I'd otherwise ignore. Especially since I wished some of them were combined for increased ideological and pragmatical efficiency.

But DE is unruly and uncompromising. If you wish to progress, you have a choice - the choice. Compromise and work on skills which don't sound attractive. The choice doesn't bode well for game design. An RPG should know better than to box the player into archetypes and skills.

*

To be fair, DE is part RPG, part Adventure, part harsh lesson in existential anxiety. The design philosophy makes its point: you may pass by understanding the importance of compromise. Its attitude to politics is balanced. Moderate, even. We can call this tame, but it’s the right... choice for an RPG-inspired romp.

I wish there’d be more time and opportunity to make politics matter, but the main story is mostly on-rails. A limit of RPG design, part of the game’s thematic attitude: facts happen without us.

We do our best to influence events, but we’ve no guarantee they’ll end to our satisfaction. We have to be disco about it: pick your skills, invest in your abilities, then let go and roll the dice.

Choice and utopia

A lingering feeling persists while playing and after completing the disco story - nostalgia and disappointment in knowing there is nothing else like DE. Well, apart from Planescape Torment.

Disco Elysium is pervaded by a sickly-sweet existentialism, not hopeful but intriguing; by the interplay of personal tragedy and ideological theater; by a drive for hope and the reminder that saving the world may be impossible.

More so, that saving the world may be a futile endeavor, at least when ignoring long-term consequences and applying brute force methods in the short term.

*

Like society, DE straddles the line between freedom and authority - it tries to offer as much freedom as possible. But its longing for socialism is a desire to achieve a more equal society, while admitting humans themselves make utopia difficult.

The freedom of the RPG, the authority of existentialism and material reality.

Another approach is possible though, more "gentle", attuned to player choice but not utopian.

Fallout New Vegas, for example - the factions and their interactions are mostly played seriously, without the Disco meta commentary. The game lets players deal with factions, see the results of their actions, listen to characters' opinions.

Both approaches work, thanks to stellar writing, a strong vision for what the games are, following said vision from beginning to end by maintaining naturalism.

More interesting, DE’s naturalism is built on surrealism, magic realism, and weird fiction. Some of its world makes sense, relative to ours, while many aspects exist as symbol and metaphor.

*

DE ends with an “inventory” of Harry’s attempt to right himself from alcoholism, and how he approached the case.

The “trial” is welcome as a measure of action and reaction, but the end is abrupt and unsatisfying compared to the running needed to solve the case.

In defense, the choice may be intentional. Disco makes its case for inevitability and authorial vision. No use arguing, except to hope its spiritual successor(s) will be better RPGs.

Hope without revolution

Disco Elysium’s status as modern classic is deserved. Like ideology, hyped and marketed, DE promised more than it delivers, in theory and practice. I want more of it, more of its eagerness to deal with politics, more interplay between its “skills”, more of its ambition.

When the revolution was undone, I was conflicted. DE is a work of art in love with its intellectualism. It commits the sin it accuses others of - endless theorizing and debate - and proposes nothing better in the end.

At the opposite, it's difficult to grasp DE's genius in one play. Its characters, world, and intent show complex facets revealed by investigating. DE bears the signs of trauma, namely the regret over failed revolutions: a genius of expression and intellect which solves nothing in the end.

Its lessons persist, though. Ambition, stellar writing, partial choice, the willingness to engage difficult topics - a lot to deconstruct and teach future RPGs.

I’m still somewhat giddy about Disco Elysium, but hope is now aimed at the future. I hope other games, spiritual successors or not, will learn from its triumphs and shortcomings. Disco Elysium may not have inspired a mainstream revolution, but it’s a step forward.

Disco Elysium gameplay lessons

Ambition.

RPGs must aspire to a plethora of systems - here, skills - for player freedom. Disco Elysium delights in its promise of freedom. It falters by not focusing on more applications for skills, but its alcohol pumping heart is in the right place.

Failure doesn’t have to hurt.

Some “failed” skill checks do not cause strong negative consequences. Sometimes they open options to yield experience, without Harry “winning” the argument.

Politics.

Yes, politics are attractive in games. Just follow the Disco attitude - give the protagonist choice. Deride politics and ideologies if you want, mock everyone equally or let the hero do it. But always give choice.

No needless combat.

An isometric RPG which refuses padding by needless combat scenes. More games should pay attention.

Surrealism.

DE’s world is a meld of magic realism and surrealism - which sometimes are the same. Not everything must have a clear explanation, though nothing in DE is accidental or left to inspiration alone.

The “easy” way to write magic realism and surrealism is to consider what every detail means. Everything in DE can be picked apart and deconstructed for meaning. Surrealism’s advantage stands in having complete freedom with setting, style and themes.

Every element must contribute to characterization. On the easy flipside, play with imagery and symbolism until your elements - as quirky as you want them - achieve characterization and a clear enough meaning.

Core ideas

1. TES 6 must readopt its predecessors’ love for exploration.

2. TES 6 should use greater differences between playstyles, races, classes.

3. The hero should not be boxed into the role of savior.

4. Quests should offer multiple choices, potential multiple endings.

5. The hero should be subject to a basic reputation system. Reputation should affect guilds, locations, quests, people, progression.

6. The main story should branch based on choice.

7. The combat should take inspiration from modern action games for better feedback.

8. The writing should be naturalist, not sound completely like dialogue in our world.

9. Dungeons should not all be linear.

You, you're finally awake. Elsweyr, in a distant land, awaits a wonderful role-playing adventure.

This world stands on intriguing history, extensive mythology, a place where god-like entities mingle in mortal lives, for better or worse.

Its charms are endless - even when you have achieved so much, it feels natural to repeat the adventure, perhaps being the same brave hero or a malevolent assassin.

This could be The Elder Scrolls 6.

The charms of The Elder Scrolls

The charm of The Elder Scrolls is unbridled exploration.

There is nothing else like TES, nothing to rival its sense of exploration and desire to live in its world.

For TES 6 to be great, it must adopt its forefathers’ relentless instinct for exploration.

In abstract, the elements of great exploration are:

• The open-world brimming with locations

• A diversity of biomes

• Interesting quests to provide characterization for the world

• Guiding the player through the world with interesting landmarks

• Minimal hand holding

Regardless of one's opinion of TES, since Morrowind, Bethesda games have consistently achieved most requirements for great trekking. Faulty their their writing or gameplay may be - TES and Fallout are mainstream classics thanks to the relentless pursuit of excellent open-world exploration.

Greater differences between play-styles

Post Morrowind Bethesda games tend to limit player personality.

Most players soon become the same character, often using the same abilities in similar ways.

Linear quests compound the issue by limiting choice, forcing everyone into the same role.

To improve:

• Create greater differences between races: strengths, weaknesses, stats, abilities, traits.

• Differences between races should matter during the game, and potentially diminish during the late-game.

• Make more play-styles viable - let heroes complete quests in multiple ways, depending on their skills.

• Make virtually-useless skills - like speech, pickpocketing, alchemy - more useful. Give players advantages and disadvantages in quests, combat and dialogue based on skill progression.

• Mix a basic skill and reputation system, for different heroes to be accepted or denied in guilds, factions and cities.

• Make skills and spells more useful early on. If a skill or spell is not useful in the early game, most players will ignore it going forward.

Clearer differences between races and skills allow heroes to specialize. Good specialization allows everyone to adventure at their own pace, and complete tasks in multiple ways.

Don't box the player into the role of savior

Stories use the cliche of the chosen one because it provides a clear reason to care about the world. Story-wise, the chosen one gives urgency to the story and a purpose to enjoy the main quest.

The role of savior limits role-playing in three ways:

• In forces everyone into a set role.

• Its urgency works against the freedom of exploration.

• It makes the world revolve around the protagonist.

If TES 6 continues the tradition of the chosen, it should take inspiration from Morrowind and Oblivion.

In Morrowind, the protagonist is the chosen one, but his or her story is treated more gently, more relaxed. The hero has ample time to explore and not hurry along to postpone the apocalypse.

The story does gain urgency eventually, more naturally - the player's need to explore does not immediately fight the hero's job in saving the world.

Oblivion provides my preferred way of treating the theme of the chosen. Here, the protagonist is a hero, but not the ultimate savior.

The hero adventures across the world, accomplishes amazing feats, grows in power, but is not the supreme being to defeat the great evil.

A more relaxed main story with choice

Following from above, the main story could begin in a more relaxed manner, to let the hero explore and avoid the pressure of saving the world.

Morrowind may provide inspiration again. Though the main story will likely deal with saving the realm, the beginning hours should be more relaxed.

Otherwise, the shadow of narrative dissonance will fall upon exploration, breaking immersion and naturalism.

Multiple solutions, multiple endings

Bethesda games have rarely been consistent with complex quests.

Their only RPG - until Starfield - which tried to integrate multiple solutions as a core feature was Fallout 3. Even so, Fallout 3 stumbles in the end because of its creators' need to tell a particular story and make the hero partial to sacrifice.

• Quests provide the means to know the world and its people in more detail, more intimately.

• RPG series cannot survive without hefty worldbuilding.

• Gameplay and exploration can be dull without lore and quests to give the world meaning.

The Elder Scrolls has some of the most expansive and intriguing lore in gaming. Now the lore should support and be supported by quests which offer multiple solutions and perhaps multiple endings.

• Linear quests do not properly support an RPG because they limits the hero’s means to tell personal stories.

• Boxing everyone into the same role turns heroes into copycats, an issue compounded by always having to be the savior of the realm.

• Linear quests and tasks have their place, but as exception to choice and reactivity. They may be used to spice up the world and gameplay, but not to limit the hero into the same playstyle.

To improve quest design:

• Let players solve quests in multiple way.

• Use skills, items or dialogue only for extra options. Let players have advantages or disadvantages depending on skill progression.

• Let players fail quests and continue the story.

• Use different patterns for quests: linear, multiple choice, branching, multiple endings, leading to another quest, time-limited, skill-based, possibility for failure etc.

• Introduce one different ending for each major choice.

Randomized design, procedural generation and AI quest creation may be used to different degrees. But the core principle should remain human-crafted custom-made quests. The three principles should be used to increase complexity and quantity, only to augment human-designed content.

The same principle supports the main story. Let players accomplish or bypass goals through different means, adjust endings based on major choices.

Considering the history of Bethesda, TES 6 will likely deal with another set ending, but this quirk should not affect individual quests.

Tactical combat

Combat in an RPG would be less relevant if not for TES being action-focused.

Combat in TES has improved gradually, with more dynamic movement, and heavier, punchier tactile feedback. Oblivion and Skyrim increased impact when engaging enemies, but combat remains dull because of lack of agile movement.

As always, to improve combat, take inspiration from modern action games:

• Different weapons are better or worse depending on the enemy. Some are ineffective against heavy armor and magic protection.

• Use stagger states after impact.

• Different types of enemies should have different strengths and weaknesses.

• Most enemies will not level with the player.

• Enemies which level will have thresholds, to support the hero's sense of progression.

A basic reputation across the world

For the world to feel alive, it must react to our actions.

A world which does not react is more of a theme-park built for the player's enjoyment.

The design fits some games, but RPGs need by necessity include simulation aspects for a lively world, one that may exist without the hero.

For guilds and factions to make sense, they cannot accept anyone the moment they meet them. Factions should have requirements based on skill or the way the hero has dealt with other factions, characters, quests.

The player should be banned from factions when the situation makes sense. Re-entry should be permitted in some cases, if the offense is not grave. Guild and faction access may depend on the hero’s reputation with a competitor.

Examples of games which make factions into core gameplay are:

• Fallout New Vegas. Major and minor factions, interacting or fighting for the same location. When the protagonist gains a high reputation with a faction, others may become hostile.

• Piranha Bytes games make joining factions their own goals. Faction interaction is often strong and supportive of multiple runs, but the writing often lacks the strength for complex politics.

Simplify where it makes sense

But no more.

RPGs may be simple or complex, devoid of skills and choices, focused on combat or sim gameplay.

As universal rule, we need brevity to focus on consequential design, to discard superfluous or incomplete mechanics. For RPGs, brevity works in short bursts, because we risk removing too many role-playing elements, choice and reactivity.

TES is known for its focus on exploration and simulation features, less for choice and reactivity (though Skyrim has improved world reactivity considerably).

In the name of simplicity, Skyrim made changes which limit role-playing:

• The differences between races are virtually non-existent.

• The guilds will accept anyone, regardless of skill.

• Spell creation does not exist because the designers could not balance it against powerful spells.

• Choice in the main quest is inconsequential.

• Some skills are virtually useless or underdeveloped, like Speech and Pickpocket

TES 6 should avoid simplification for its own sake and use brevity of design to augment its RPG complexity.

Mechanics and abilities should only be removed or simplified if their current state is incomplete or useless.

The focus must be on redesigning a more complex RPG, not on feature removal.

Examples:

• Races should have clear differences between them, for different play-styles. The differences may be reduced during the late-game, or through powerful perks.

• Guilds and factions should be selective. Entry should be permitted based on skills, reputation, or quest choices.

• Reintroduce spell creation. Balance it by adding negative effects on low magic skills, but make the spells effective. Introduce powerful spells the hero may not be able to create, balance them with counter mechanics.

• Use choice and reactivity in the main story. If the quest remains linear, allow the hero to complete tasks in multiple ways.

• Make all skills and play-styles viable. Make Speech options lead to different results and include combat advantages. Make Pickpocket useful to gain powerful items and complete quests. Make most skills usable in dialogue with clear advantages.

Good writing

Video games may be perfect with virtually no writing, as they rely first on gameplay. Even RPGs can eschew good writing by resorting to minimalist functional prose.

But expansive open-world games lack substance without good prose and worldbuilding. Bethesda games rarely excel at writing, the result of a lax attitude toward storytelling and choice.

TES 6 should focus on its heritage of exploration. To support overall depth, it should adapt to the new breed of RPGs like Cyberpunk and Baldur’s Gate which understand the importance of writing and storytelling, and how they sustain immersion.

In-world travel means

Opening the map and teleporting without any consequence is convenient but immersion-breaking. For immersion and convenience, we can combine in-world diegetic travel with interface teleportation.

TES 6 should follow Daggerfall and Morrowind, and combine their travel means for maximum trekking immersion: carriage or giant strider, ship, guild services, recall and location spells.

Add random encounters during fast travel. The encounter may stop the trek or play out as a choose-your-own-adventure based on player character.

Less linear dungeons

The model for linear dungeons was tested in Oblivion, popularized by Skyrim, and became a tedious staple in Fallout 4.

• Basic usability - linear design allows heroes to move conveniently through dungeons, never lose their way and return to the beginning fast.

• Basic design template - linear dungeons made of prefabs are faster to assemble. Depending on how many premade and custom parts we have, devs may fill a large map with dungeons, sometimes bland and repetitive.

The design is efficient for resource use and player convenience, but works against immersion and naturalism. With random and procedural generation, linear dungeons should not be the norm, but a layer of design supporting gameplay and quest diversity.

It makes sense for some dungeons to be linear. It also makes sense to encounter various types of design:

• Single-room

• Labyrinthine

• Multiple entry and exit points

• Dungeons which can be completed in various ways - stealth, magic, diplomacy, puzzle, non-combat means.

• Dungeons where difficulty gradually decreases.

• Dungeons with various puzzles, some easier to solve depending on skills and choices.

When designing dungeons, don't just think in terms of accessibility.

Combine accessibility with organic design, especially for naturally-created spaces.

Make dungeons with multiple entry points, labyrinthine hallways, multiple objectives, well-hidden secrets, multiple bosses, complex puzzles, spaces which can be accessed through different means etc.

Speculation: procedural generation

Two games point to TES 6 using procgen to augment its size: Daggerfall and Starfield.

Procedural generation in Starfield is a hit and miss, because it tried to supplement its 1000 “planets” with repeatable environs. If TES 6 does get us to Hammerfell, it may be a spiritual successor to Daggerfall, and use proc gen to enlarge the map.

Regardless of procedural and AI generation, TES 6 will reign over Starfield thanks to its uninterrupted map, devoid of loading screens between regions.

Looking back to move forward

TES 6 only need to understand its legacy to be the best iteration.

With care and attention to detail, Bethesda has all it needs to surpass every past TES adventure.

Make TES 6 a combination of the best Bethesda games:

• Exploration has been the foundation which carried the series from the beginning.

• Complex quest design has been done in Fallout 3, and to various degrees in all other games.

• Instances of good writing are present in most games - the main quests in Oblivion and Skyrim, the Dark Brotherhood faction, and peppered throughout Morrowind and Fallout 3.

Looking back at Bethesda games, they've all done something that, combined, would result in a classic RPG.

And may the land of The Elder Scrolls suit you, and welcome you freely, outlander.

Hopepunk core ideas

• Hopepunk focuses on positivism, resilience, grit, hope for the future, the possibility for a better world.

• Hopepunk may include less pleasant themes.

• Hopepunk may take place in almost any setting.

• Hopepunk stories may or may not be naive. When they are, naivete is not a weakness, but a desire to inspire the future.

• Hopepunk is a natural reaction to grimdark and so-called realism.

• Hopepunk is often set in an anti-establishment setting.

• Hopepunk utopias may be temporary but worth fighting for.

• Hopepunk story endings are optimistic. Different characters may survive or not, but their legacy and teachings will inspire others.

• Hopepunk endings are always, well, hopeful.

How to write hopepunk

1. You can write Hopepunk in almost any setting. Fantasy, sci-fi, post-apocalypse, magic realism, surrealism, weird fiction, any punk variation.

2. Your characters don't have to achieve all they want, and get out unscathed of any conundrum. In the end, they will be smarter or stronger. Even if they don't reach the story's end, their own adventure may be inspirational to their peers.

3. You can combine hopepunk with realism.

4. One or more characters may be the chosen one archetype, but not the only ones to inspire.

5. Your story will likely be set in an anti-establishment setting. The desired utopia will be temporary. But yours may be different.

6. Your story should first be inspirational to you.

7. Be excited for the future. The ending should be hopeful.

A worthy name

There may be no one single way to define hopepunk, as there is no single way to define steampunk or cyberpunk.

To understand the basics, follow the name. Hopepunk is a literary attitude which rejects more violent tendencies - abuse, suffering - for their own sake.

It stands in clear contrast to grimdark and harsh realism to tell stories about, well, hope. Its quirky name doesn’t do it disservice, no more than calling a genre or style steampunk.

A new hope

Hopepunk and its cousin, romanticpunk, share the romanticism of:

• Fighting bigger abusive forces

• Opposing the man and the machine with relentless determination

• Persisting against authoritarian nihilism.

Hopepunk is not relegated to one single style or genre. You can tell stories of hope inside realism, any fantasy branch, surrealism, sci-fi etc.

Any genre may do this, but hopepunk focuses on how the fight may be won, on the hope and inspiration awaiting at the end and beyond.

There and back again

Stories and fairytales have dealt with universal and personal themes, hopeful or bleak, from the beginning of storytelling.

After Tolkien and the fantasy inspired-sci-fi which followed, literature veered toward realism. From there, it caught a slight reactionary bug called grimdark, often drifting into violence and abuse for their own sake.

Hopepunk itself may be seen as simply reacting to the excesses of grimdark and realism. Hope can be a natural response to the reactionarism affecting the 21st century, in society and the arts.

Hopepunk is a greater driver of dreaming and positive change in fiction. Because the purpose of good art is to inspire, hopepunk adopts this as explicit means, rejecting more reactionary tendencies.

You may regard Hopepunk attitudes as being childish or unrealistic, but the genre cherishes them.

The 20th century may have been evenly spread out between fantasy and so-called realism, between the idealism of fairytales and the bleakness of a world stumbling through progress and existential threat.

For decades, "realism" and reactionary grimdark have increasingly plagued the arts, especially literature. Thus, it is no wonder Hopepunk may impose itself as genre, as natural counter-balance to realism.

We may call it naive, but naivete sustains a core tenet of good art: hopepunk stories are inspirational. Hopepunk is a return to the wonder of ancient fairytales - complete with idealism - and the courage to plan better futures. A hopeful meld of old and new.

• Hopepunk is inspired in rejecting what is sometimes the fetishistic abuse of grimdark.

• Grimdark gains an advantage by trying to be closer to realism.

• Like fairytales, hopepunk is seductive in its desire to be inspirational.

Hopepunk is not realistic

And it does not have to be.

Viewed through an "objective" lens of realism in fiction, most stories are not realistic. The purpose of stories is not so much to be realistic, but ideally to inspire, to plant ideas and inspiration for new possibilities, perhaps a better world.

• Grimdark itself is often not realistic, especially when it fetishizes suffering.

• A story may portray events which have happened in our world.

• Beyond that, so-called realism in fiction is always a matter of personal choice.

Hopepunk is naive

And that is part of its purpose and charm.

In abstract contrast, realism, grimdark and subverting expectations suffer similar quirks - they often reject hope and kindness in favor of abuse and a fetish for suffering, bleakness and cheap nihilism.

• Grimdark tends to be reactionary, Hopepunk may be naive.

• Grimdark reacts to fairytales by trying to dismantle their idealism and positivity.

• Hopepunk is free to reject faulty aspects of the past and tell stories of change, to dream of a better future.

Grimdark is beholden to reject the traditionalism of the past. Hopepunk has space to reject or embrace it, as befit the story.

Hopepunk and class struggle

Hopepunk's lack of specific class politics may be seen as weakness, but the vagueness is by design.

Its openness is not clearly a strength. But it's also no fault, because hopepunk, like all punk attitudes, may be adapted to any class and minority fight.

Cyberpunk, steampunk, other punks, are not dealing with one single class fight. Their common elements are fighting oppressive systems, grit and persisting against adversity and tyranny.

A hopeful future

Where grimdark may have a fetish for abuse, Hopepunk rejects realism in favor of stories and dreams of better worlds, new possibilities and the potential for change. The exact purpose of good art.

• Hopepunk can evolve on its own, gleefully moving away from reacting to "realism" and telling stories standing on practical positivism and hope for the future.

• Compared to steampunk and cyberpunk, hopepunk may lack a clear visual identity. But this false impediment allows it to tell stories regardless of setting. In tone and aesthetics, hopepunk and romanticpunk have almost complete freedom.

• Hopepunk and romanticpunk don't need to be canonized. As contemporary attitudes, they have the strength to march on their own, perhaps in time become established genres.

The tediousness of grimdark and "realism" has endured and will likely endure in perpetuity.

Hopepunk can establish itself as a longstanding attitude and genre among literary greats, regardless of how quirky its label may be.

Hopefully.

image credit Chris Charles.

One page game design document template

1. Name and core concept. What makes your game great, elevator pitch, unique selling points. Genre may be approximate or experimental but your publisher might appreciate a simple and trendy concept.

2. Core gameplay loop. Core systems and gameplay mechanics.

3. Story and major plot points, if applicable.

4. Major abilities, major skill trees where applicable.

5. Mood, tone, aesthetics.

6. Market appeal and target audience. Potential franchise, genre outreach.

7. Sources of inspiration for gameplay and mood. Any media, any genre. Encourage your team to contribute their own inspiration.

8. A game design doc is only as good as the information inside.

9. Formatting is essential. You want people to read and skip to any section fast.

10. Use clear language, short paragraphs, and bullet points. Every system and mechanic will get their own detailed section in specific design documents.

11. Play the game in your mind. Pinpoint what your game excels at. Focus on what inspires you, and inspire your team.

Name and core concept

• Describing your core concept may be difficult in writing, but try to list essential mechanics and mood.

• Explain in one sentence what makes your game amazing.

• Genre may be approximate or experimental but your publisher might appreciate a simple and trendy concept.

Example:

Umbra is a gothic role-playing immersive sim. The player assumes the role of Lucien (Lucienne), a young thief ready to face the world.

Lucien is smart and capable. With ties to both the working class and the elites ruling Umbra, Lucien will make choices which may impact the city for a long time to come.

Core gameplay mechanics and loop

Describe the major moment to moment gameplay mechanics.

• What your player or hero do most of the time.

• Essential and interesting gameplay mechanics.

• How your hero or player solve major obstacles.

This helps communicate what your core gameplay is, and roots out weak gameplay systems. Focus on major gameplay mechanics. Complete game design and parameters will be done in separate detailed documents.

Example:

Lucien travels the five hubs of the city by sprinting, leaping, sliding.

Most enemy and traversal sections may be solved through different means: combat, sneaking, skills, diplomacy, finding new paths through exploration.

All quests and tasks have at least two ways to be solved. All major quests have consequences, mechanical or narrative reactivity.

Experience points are gained for completing tasks, quests, exploration.

Movement is extremely agile. Lucien makes use of architecture and environmental elements to move, leap, slide swiftly across the city.

Combat is fast, precise, deadly.

Lucien's friends may help with various tasks, gifts or perks. Friends may also be avoided.

The main story has multiple endings.

The city's population will react heavily to Lucien's actions. The more violent Lucien is, the more guards, vampire hunters and Inquisition soldiers will appear. The people of Umbra may become more friendly or hostile depending on Lucien's actions.

When not engaging with quests, Lucien may explore the secret-filled city, spend time with friends, play minigames, or get a job. All these activities may influence or begin new quests.

Lucienne can sleep to advance time, after completing the main quest for the day.

Major skill tress

Your hero's major abilities or core gameplay mechanics when dealing with multiple protagonists.

Example:

Lucien may use three major skill tress.

1. Skills.

Standard and special abilities which the player will invest experience points in.

Skills include improvements to speed, life, healing, strength, speech, sneaking.

Skills examples:

• Fortitude. A permanent increase in speed, melee strength, life and healing. Better resistance against melee and standard projectile attacks.

• Streetwise. Increases persuasion and intimidation chances during dialogue. Higher levels confer combat bonuses against weaker enemies.

• Advanced lockpicking. Increases the time locks slide back into place when starting lockpicking. Reduces the number of wrong lock combinations.

2. Vampirism.

A complete skill tree of supranatural powers.

Vampiric powers examples:

• Vampirism: Life, speed and strength increase. Shadow Form replaces jumping - allows leaping over great distances and moving through thin objects. Some characters become friendlier or hostile. Lucien will slowly lose health when exposed to the sun.

• Vampiric charm. Can influence weaker humans and vampires in dialogue. Confers more powerful attacks against weaker humans.

• Teleport. Lucien can teleport behind an enemy. Weaker enemies may be subdued. Stronger enemies can be attacked or ignored.

Lucienne will have the chance to become a vampire soon after the game's intro. Becoming a vampire is optional, and comes with its own features and disadvantages.

3. Perks.

Perks are advantages gained from gameplay, exploration and quests. Some will be secret.

Perk examples:

• Advantages against various types of enemies. Gained after fighting a specific number of enemies.

• Calling an animal companion for help in battle. Gained after petting all the different animal species in the city.

• Increased experience for the day. Gained after spending a night with a companion, or permanent after completing their quest.

Mood, tone, aesthetics

• Describe the way the game and the world feel.

• Mood, atmosphere, aesthetics.

• Make it tactile and sweet, a general impression of what players feel when immersed in your game.

Example:

Umbra is a fantasy gothic city, fearsome and beautiful, grimdark and romantic.

The architecture is a meld of traditional Gothic style mixed with fantasy influences from different eras and regions.

The night sky is often clear, braided with twinkling stars and fluffy rain clouds. Sunsets are beautiful, saturated, inspiring.

Gameplay sequences take place only at night and during the sunset.

Market appeal and target audience

• Your core audience.

• Hone in on who will enjoy your game most, and what your audience expects.

• Not only about pleasing a certain demographic, but knowing where your strengths lie.

Example:

Umbra appeals to fans of:

Complex RPGs and immersive sims.
Choice and reactivity.
Gothic fiction.
Story-driven games.
Agile movement.
Action and stealth games.
Visual novels and dating sims.

Umbra is positioned alongside complex RPGs and immersive sims, action and stealth games, and partially alongside visual novels.

Sources of inspiration

• Include sources of inspiration from all media and genres.

• Encourage your team to seek, play or watch similar media, in gameplay and mood.

• If you have time and resources, ask everyone to make a list of three features they consider essential for the kind of game you're making.

Example:

• Gameplay and movement: Dishonored, Assassin's Creed (series), Spider-Man (series), immersive sims in general, visual novels, fast-paced action games.

• Writing and mood: Legacy of Kain (series), Vampyr, Vampire The Masquerade - Bloodlines, Max Payne, simplified Shakespeare, The Lord of the Rings, lyrical prose, Bram Stoker's Dracula; any mature vampire story; movies such as Dark City and the Harry Potter series.

• Umbra takes inspiration from gothic, romantic and weird fiction in all its forms.

Do I need a game design document?

Yes and no. The consistency of documentation depends on the complexity of your project. The bigger the project, the more detailed documents you may need.

One single doc may become irrelevant, but it can communicate your core vision, mood, and gameplay. A design doc is as useful as the quality of information contained.

Regardless or how much documentation you need, maintain clear communication and stay relevant. Get to the point, focus on major features, format the doc properly to always be easy to read.

What to do if you're not excited for your game?

• If gameplay feels bland, it often lacks good interlocking systems. At the simplest level, think of gameplay as opposing and interlocking systems.

• When you create one mechanic, create another simple one to oppose it. Good gameplay stems from a balanced interplay of interlocking mechanics.

• If narrative - story, plot, quests - feels bland, you can almost always point to lack of characterization. Characterization works on two core principles: relationships and dimensionality.

• Relationships: characters have different relationships with each other (indifference included) and with various ideas.

• Dimensionality: characters occupy a time-space in the past, present, future. Even if they're missing from the past or future, they still have an opinion and relationship with these concepts.

Basic hygiene

• Format your document. You want people to read and skip to any section fast. Use clear language, short paragraphs, and bullet points. In comprehensive design docs, support the writing with relevant visuals: storyboards and core gameplay flow charts.

• Avoid needless bragging. I've seen examples of design docs with a fair amount of bragging about how revolutionary the game is. Though you cannot argue with feelings, bragging won't accomplish much when communicating your vision to your team.

• Play the game in your mind. Pinpoint what your game excels at. Get excited and giddy for the gameplay before it enters production. Focus on what inspires you, and inspire your team.

Core ideas

• Storytelling may be implicit or explicit. Implicit refers to methods where the hero is not told directly what to think. Explicit ways give the hero the meaning of something directly. The hero should not be forced to agree with the meaning.

• Implicit, show-don't-tell information may be more interesting. It gives players and readers a more active role, where they can decide meaning on their own.

• Your world is as important as your characters.

• Friends and companions are just as important. Make them their own characters, do not use them as narrative contraptions.

• Combine any type of media and genre which suits your game.

• Make the hero's home a place to rest, to spend time with companions, to enjoy visiting. The home may be part of quests. It may act as contrast to the more active parts of the adventure.

• Use different kinds of recorded knowledge: written, audio, visual. The contained information may be anywhere between explicit and implicit.

• Sprinkle small lore details everywhere in the story, to achieve complex worldbuilding.

• Systemic, randomized, and procedural design may be used to add variety, choice, and replayability. Do not use them alone. First, fill your world with hand-crafted storytelling focused on quality. Add systemic gameplay to support custom made content.

What's the story?

Every game does not need a story, or a complex, award-winning branch of events. By virtue of the medium, video games can live with simple or non-existent stories.

Stories can augment gameplay and transform games into classics because they make us care about the characters and their world.

Games are great at conjuring their own meta-narrative - chess, Civilization, many others create organic stories while unfolding under the player's control. That said, there's a bunch of ways to enhance storytelling.

Implicit and explicit, show and tell

Players are your friends. You invite your friends over to regale them with your amazing adventures. When you're done, your friends may be astounded. But they'll remind you to maybe invite them along for the ride instead of simply telling about the amazing times you've had.

• Showing is better because it places readers and players into a more active role. Instead of explicitly telling players how to feel, we let dialogue, action and world design do the talking.

• Players become active participants, and decide the meaning of events on their own. In games, let your characters and world design do the work.

• Give players choice in how to deal with characters and events. As good writers, RPG designers should exist in the background, and not force players onto a set path.

Even if you have strong convictions, in RPGs they should be delivered by characters. Couple this with notes, events, world reactivity, and your players are free to decide their own fate.

• Implicit refers to more or less indirect means of characterization: quest endings, world design, general reactivity.

• Explicit means are direct ways to deliver information: character opinion, the game telling the hero how to feel, and standard linear stories.

Complexity from simple systems

At the micro level we have to know what each system does, and how to achieve its purpose with minimal design. At the macro level, all the small systems will interact to achieve complexity.

In writing style, complexity may be done by using a simple structure: short sentences made of simple words.

In narrative design, we get complexity by telling the stories of multiple characters. Each one needs enough time to develop properly, essentially becoming their own sagas. Not every story needs multiple intertwining threads, so this approach is intentional.

In worldbuilding, we combine endless small details, explicit and implicit, to achieve a complex impression of the universe. When characters act, react, and have different opinions on the ideas which define a world, you create a complex cosmos from simple interacting elements.

In game design, we create simple systems with a clear purpose. Different systems grow in complexity, but for a game's vision, we must always know what each system does. To achieve complexity at the macro level, we want to have as many simple systems as possible to interact and affect each other.

Notes galore, in various forms

A cliche, to be sure, but an effective one.

People leaving written or audio diaries everywhere is suspicious, but it works. Notes are a direct, point-blank means of developing the characters and their world. They're explicit - obvious as exposition mechanisms - but effective, especially when other means are costly.

Writers, remember brevity, the universal law of art. No matter how much you'd like to drone on forever, it is imperative you adhere to the tenet of sticking to the point. Short and pulpy does the trick.

The hero’s home

Everyone wants their own shelter to brave the narrative storm. The protagonist's home offers a natural contrast - the urgency of the main story versus the calm enjoyed in their own love nest.

Nothing may happen at home, but it's better if a lot does, though not all at once.

• The hero may simply sleep alone, read, organize his or her artifacts and expensive furniture, or spend time with friends and family.

• Quests may begin or take place at home, though never treat the home as a quest dispenser only.

• The home acts as meta-narrative mechanism - after a long and murky dungeon, you rest away the night while contemplating your new Sword of Flaming Ice.

Your mind wanders with the heroics of the day while dreaming of the dragons of tomorrow. Don't forget the window to a beautiful view and the moody ambient music.

Spend time with friends

In the game.

Friends are not only useful to pass the time. They can tell you stories you haven't enjoyed yourself. Stories that have been, are, and will be.

Visit your friends, tell them your stories, and listen to theirs.

Spend time away from saving the world. Speak with friends about your grand adventures and about the tiny beautiful details which make the world its own character.

• Companions may be mixed with other gameplay systems.

• Companions may follow you along and take advantage of your loot-collecting ability.

• Companions may visit you at home, maybe stay for the night if they're agreeable.

• Companions may agree with you or not. They may influence quests for better or worse.

• Companions should be their own characters. Always treat characters as the heroes of their own story. Avoid using people as narrative contraptions.

• Companions may turn on the hero eventually. They have their own quirks and intentions, which may put them at odds with the hero.

Jokes aside, spend time with friends, both in games and life. Good friends are always inspiring.

Systemic stories

Systemic design ia a somewhat abstract concept, because you cannot always plan or predict its outcome.

Complex systemic interactions results when we combine many simple systems.

In games, these systems are character abilities, gadgets, AI response, world design, and all the ways they interact. Systemic design may be a double-edged sword: it ups gameplay complexity, but it may result in chaotic behavior.

Nonetheless, RPGs benefit from a complex web of interacting systems. The increase in complexity should lead to multiple ways to bypass obstacles, and different outcomes for player action.

In modern times, this may be easier thanks to artificial intelligence. In abstract, systemic gameplay functions the way text and art generators do:

• First, the system is created with a basic set of rules, for a general understanding of player action and effect.

• Second, the design may be trained by itself and with examples of behavior, to understand how humans use different skills in different contexts.

• Third, it may use another layer of "censorship" to decide if positive effects are useful enough, and if negative ones are not breaking the game.

Here lies the paradox of systemic design: the more you plan it, the less free-form it may be, and thus not be systemic at all. Systemic gameplay implies a degree of unpredictable chaos in its design, which must be controlled with pre-set rules.

Examples of systemic gameplay:

• Allow the player to destroy walls and natural formations. The locations must be as free-form as possible.

• Combine player abilities to create new unknown skills. For the chaos element, add a random effect to new abilities.

• Give the player items with chaotic affects, both friendly and negative. To balance usefulness, create a large pool of useful effects and keep the negative ones to a minimum.

• Infuse characters with minor randomized changes in preferences. The changes are more or less unpredictable, making use of personality traits and thresholds. Personality changes may be friendly or hostile to the player, and should be justified depending on the character.

• Create a large pool of random encounters, each with their own randomized parameters. For each rule, make sure the player can deal with encounters in at least two ways.

The caveat: systemic gameplay is a part of randomized design and procedural generation. In most games, it will not replace custom-made hand-crafted content. Randomization, procedural generation and systemic gameplay should be used alongside hand-crafted worlds and design, to add variety, choice, and reactivity.

The eternal return of environmental storytelling

You set out to explore the magical post-apocalyptic world filled with raiders, mutants, cannibals, and cannibal mutant raiders.

What is one of the first features you know you'll find in the fire-bathed wasteland? The skeletons still hanging around after hundreds of years, of course.

The geographic, topographic, natural or man-made cliche of storytelling environs remains strong thanks to its naturalism. The world reacts to natural laws or to human intervention, potentially providing new locations to explore.

As always, there is no escape from naturalism.

Consider:

• What kind of events make sense in your world.

• How much time has passed since the event took place.

• How the landscape has changed.

Skeletons strewn everywhere make sense depending on the context. But not so much when the world is filled with them and raiders refuse to pick their pockets.

As always, environmental storytelling is more or less explicit:

• Natural or man-made formations, intact or not.

• Different types of media which reveal world and character details: audio, visual, written.

• The remains and remnansts of major and minor events: wars, battles, inter-faction conflict, family brawls, angsty sports fans proving their frustration.

Small epiphanies

A "secret" of good storytelling is to not fill any scene with an inordinate amount of details.

Good storytelling and lore rely on diversity of naturalist elements and pacing. To let your writing, your characters and your reader breathe, spread your lore snippets across the story.

• A character that has a strong opinion and can reveal a new facet about the world.

• A controversial event that will not be immediately explained and leaves the hero wondering and seeking information.

• A note, recording or love letter that reveals emotional information about peoples' lives.

Worldbuilding and lore snippets spread out like seeds are small epiphanies. They do not need to be complex or explained immediately.

They are the unsung heroes of lore, details which make the world a character of its own, alive and lived-in.

Ideally, do not crowd scenes and pages with myriad details. Spread, sprinkle and spice worldbuilding details across the story. Let each scene breathe and achieve its aim by avoiding irrelevant details.

Gather your party

There's no adventure without the heroes and their friends. Characters come in all shapes and sizes: humans, creatures of myth, supranatural beings, mysterious eldritch entities, personified natural elements. And just as important, the world.

If you have difficulty distilling what a piece of storytelling - quest or object - should do, remember characterization. If storytelling feels bland, you may almost always point to a core issue: lack of characterization.

To amend, return to core principles: relationships and dimensionality. Consider if the current storytelling scene develops the character's relationships with people and ideas, or their presence in time and space.

Experimental techniques and media

When you design a game, tell stories through every medium and genre that fits your setting and style.

Combine all the above methods and mediums: visual arts, sound, music, mechanical design, writing, cinema, theater, breaking the fourth wall, dialogue, silence.

Here stands a core advantage of games: to combine all forms of expression, to enjoy the strengths of each medium and genre. Implicit or explicit, games can do everything and mix different mediums to various degrees.

Implicit storytelling is more interesting because it lets us distill meaning on our own, and serves our need for discovery.

Treat your players like smart explorers and let them discover and decide meaning without an excess of explicit hand-holding.

Combine any medium needed, more or less explicit, to let players decide the meaning of something on their own.