When I first heard about the Battlestar Galactica board game I dismissed it as a shameless cash-in; might as well buy a Battlestar themed happy meal at McDonald’s (or, I suppose, a Starbuck themed coffee at Starbucks).  I’m a big fan of the show.  It was fresh and gutsy and the writing and acting were good enough that the characters managed to transcend the stereotypes that they undeniably were.  The plot was slow-moving and complex, with long plot arcs.  Unlike in Star Trek, unexpected things could and did actually happen, things that irreversibly altered the universe.  There was no requirement for things to return to the status quo at the end of the episode, and so there was real uncertainty in the decisions the crew had to face.  Despite its flaws, I believe it stands as one of the truly great sci fi TV shows.

How could a board game capture all that?  A board game must necessarily reduce its subject matter to a few simple principles.  When they are representational, board games deal in stereotypes and stock characters.  The representations must be easily understood.  With the exception of RPGs and the like, games do not generally allow for elaborate background stories or sophisticated character development.  So the best I was hoping for was something akin to a Battlestar themed chess set, or a quake mod where you get to fight cylons: a skin thrown over an otherwise unrelated set of game mechanics.

But the Battlestar board game is so much more that that.  It is unbelievably successful at evoking the spirit of the series through the gameplay itself.  The events of the show do not just give flavour to the game, they form the game mechanics.  For example, the game is cooperative, with each player having to make decisions about how best to protect Galactica from the cylon onslaught, but there is a mechanic similar to that of Mafia (aka Vampire, aka Werewolf) that is central to the game. Some players are secretly cylons and try to work against the rest of the crew without revealing their identities.  Others players are cylons but don’t know it themselves until half way through the game.  This is a simple mechanic, and certainly not an original one, but it succeeds in evoking the feelings of suspicion and paranoia that were so powerful in the show.  One could be a cylon oneself without knowing it.  The “crisis cards” that dictate the major events of the game sometimes necessitate a mad scramble into the vipers to shoot down approaching raiders, but during those times when the crises aren’t that bad, when the characters are basically just hanging out, the game is equally intense.  The lack of obvious things to do has a way of provoking accusations.  Each player’s decisions are analyzed in minute detail for any telltale sign that they might secretly be working against the rest of the crew.

Rather than being a skin, the Battlestar game is more like a translation or an adaptation.

Some of the narrative elements seem a little forced or throwaway (for example, Helo starts the game down on a planet, and doesn’t make it back to Galactica until turn two), but the vast majority of them make sense from the perspective of the narrative world of Battlestar and work well with the game mechanics.  They add variety to the gameplay even as they provide satisfaction and recognition to fans of the show.

Rather than being a skin, the Battlestar game is more like a translation or an adaptation.  But here’s the thing: it’s not an adaptation of the narrative of the show, it’s an adaptation of what the narrative does.  The board game adapts the waxing and waning tensions of the show, the feelings of paranoia and suspicion, the stress and desperation and the sudden, unexpected bursts of hope.  It recreates all these things through gameplay instead of through narrative.

Of course we already knew that adaptation is not restricted to narrative works; just look at the Pirates of the Caribbean movies (adapted from a fairground ride) or the Lego Star Wars video games.  Play (with lego or board games) is not the same as narrative, and narrative is not the same as a rollercoaster, but they all do something similar; they deal in the creation and resolution of tension.  The board game could never have replicated the show’s narrative, but the designers of the game realized that the essence of the show lay in the ebb and flow of tension, the accumulation of crises upon crises, the frantic search for solutions—all of that stuff a board game can replicate very well indeed.

I’m not an extraordinary minesweeper player. My best time to date is 168 seconds on Expert, and I lose 80% of my games. Admittedly, however, I lose most often because Minesweeper suffers from a fundamental design flaw: in almost every game there are frequently occurring positions that are logically undecideable. These are situations where there is a 50/50 chance that any one of two tiles will contain a mine, and no amount of logic or head bashing will help you. The only option for these situations is to guess. Statistically, you would thus expect my lost games to average out to 50%, but don’t forget the copious human error involved (and my general lack of skill: I frequently guess for decidable positions, simply because I haven’t mastered every logical subtlety yet; moreover, I miss-click, sometimes just plain miscalculate, or fail to notice an adjoining square, and so on. In truth, I probably only get to the endgame where most 50/50 guessing positions arise about 20% of the time, which means that a 10% win ratio sounds about right). But even in games I lose, I still manage on occasion to get into an effortless mind-space that I find deeply satisfying, and one I’ll try here to explain.

Without getting overly technical, I’ll just present a few positions from a single minesweeper game to illustrate my thinking. Minesweeper is a wonderful example of a game with a steep, but clearly noticeable and measurable learning curve. When I first sat down to play I had absolutely no idea what to do, and the game seemed impossible to me. Once I understood the fundamentals, namely that the numbers on each tile represented the quantity of mines touching that tile (either adjacently or diagonally), things began to move a lot more quickly. Now this very simple rule wasn’t in the least obvious at first, and I can even recall the first few times I played experiencing a vague sense of unease, as if the numbers represented a mysterious secret or hermetic truth that I could never actually grasp, or maybe a perverse anti-logic, as if the mines moved around or required profound analytical abilities, prayer, or alchemy to locate).

The truth is that most mines are extremely easy to find. In our game, since minesweeper is designed to give you an open area on your first click, I got this nice position:

The mine in the middle is dangling down like a cherry waiting to be plucked. There’s absolutely nothing else around and it couldn’t be more obvious. Another lesson is that corners are your friends. A great deal of the automatic play that develops later is simply perceiving corners as inherently mine-heavy. Once you start thinking that way, you start carving paths around and through them in a way that seems more instinctive than logical. The real magic starts to happen when you encounter advanced positions, and solve them quickly and spontaneously as if they were also ‘geographic’. I’ll get to that in a second, but first let me update this position with the mines I know I can detect (based on my limited logical analysis) from what’s available here already.

It only took me a couple seconds, without even clicking away any empty tiles, to locate all these mines. Once again, I’m not profoundly talented at this, but by practicing even the little I have, I now see 1s as very clear designators of emptiness when they are near corners. Now my intuition tells me that the question marked tiles contain mines, but I can’t prove it yet. But let’s clear away some of the dust and see what we’re left with.

So it seems like my intuition proved to be fairly accurate. Even the two touching question-marked tiles are now, without a doubt, mines. The other question mark is still undecided, but there’s nothing we can do about it for now. Let me fill in these mines and get to the next position.

Now we have more data and another question mark. Here both question marks point to specific patterns that I see all the time. Those ones, nestled between two twos, are often mines, but not always. I’ve lost enough games by mistakenly flagging them that I know that this pattern represents a good probability for detection, but not a logical certainty. From a psychological point of view, my desire to rush ahead and take possession of a particular pattern, committing it to memory and reflex, comes up against the painful experience of having been proven wrong again and again. I can safely say the dopamine starts flowing whenever I find a mine without effort. It is immensely gratifying to perform a skill, with ever-increasing speed and facility, that has proven to be reliable and trustworthy. Part of the satisfaction of playing minesweeper quickly (the emphasis here is essential) is that in the transition from the slow, frustrating grind of logic and probability to the instantaneous process of solving positions quickly, your mind is actually leaping from a mechanical level to another level of essentially pure abstraction. My experience of this ostensibly higher level is the unifying of different types of awareness: mechanical, rational, spatial, patterned, and others as well, into a sort of gestalt of conscious activity.

Think of this way: let’s say you’re learning guitar. Someone teaches you the open C chord with 3-fingers. It’s a basic chord and easy enough to play, but for beginners it is quite difficult to find each appropriate fret corresponding to the right string, and if you happen to be learning theory at the same time add to that knowing the notes of each string and fret position, the chord structure, its key, etc. A novice will have more than enough to think about without even getting into the right amount of pressure for each finger, the best hand position, where to place fingers inside the fret for the best sound, rhythm, how to hold a pick, how to strum, and so on. But once you’ve internalized all these mechanics, you no longer think about them. More than becoming second nature, they actually lose their mechanical quality. They become fluid, spontaneous, and effortless. The quality of the action itself changes.

The same is certainly true for logic puzzles like minesweeper. See the top leftmost flag in the last picture? I am 100% certain it is a mine, and I was able to find it quite quickly. It simply has to be a mine (the “1” can only permit a single mine in those top two squares, while the “2” needs a second mine somewhere else to fulfill its value, necessitating the red flag here). It might take a beginner a while to see this (as it did me when I first started learning). For a while this sort of scenario wasn’t even apparent to me at all, but I can see it now almost instantly. Once you get faster at the mechanical work of playing the game, or in this case crunching the logic, at a certain point something exciting and complementary happens. It coincides with gaining momentum, or warming up, and carries with it the sense of finding your rhythm. It’s a glorious feeling, and I think it actually deserves to be called an altered state of consciousness.

Now as I’m playing through this particular game, I’m deliberately exposing all the mines I can positively identify through logic before removing empty squares. I’m doing it this way for demonstrative purposes, but it is by no means the fastest way of playing. In fact, minesweeper offers a few wonderful heuristics (shortcuts) for speeding up your game. For example, if you double-click on a numbered square next to a flagged square, it’ll remove a 3×3 square of boxes for you. This isn’t cheating though: if you’ve mislabelled a flag, you’ll expose a mine somewhere, and lose. But if used properly it does greatly accelerate the game play. Another trick is to actually place all those question marks in your head, instead of wasting precious seconds double right-clicking. Most importantly, and again this comes back to the question of speed, the best tactic is to flag the easiest mines first, because doing so will reveal more information about otherwise potentially complex regions of the board. This is important because skill, and the intangible quality of finding one’s groove that I spoke about earlier, is strongly correlated with your momentum.

This might sound wishy-washy, but I can swear by it. The faster you play, and the more rapidly you accumulate successes, however minor, (e.g., little victories in the form of individual correctly marked flags and exposed empty tiles) builds up a sort of repository of good-feeling. Your brain starts coasting on the high that success gives you. Your thinking speeds up, and your accuracy improves. I’ve seen this happen to me again and again. The inverse happens as well: when I start making errors, and getting frustrated, and if I get bogged down on a particularly tricky section of the board, my play begins to disintegrate, the number of errors I make increases, and so on. One good example of a tiny victory is in the case of that “1” on the middle left of the board, sandwiched between a flag and a plain blue tile. I found that “1” tile based on logic, and then was able to uncover an entire swath of board by extending the implications of its presence even further. Sudden accomplishments like this give me a burst of energy and speed; it’s like getting a second wind after scoring in a game like soccer. It also gives you quick access to a lot of easy grist to quickly chew through, which only adds to your speed and confidence. Let me fast forward a little bit now.

At this point in the game I’ve reached an impasse where I can no longer advance by using straightforward logic. There are really two kinds of logic that can be applied to a game like minesweeper (before running into guesswork and probabilities). The first is pattern recognition and consists of “folding” sequences of logical deduction into single flashes of judgment. Logic, by and large, proceeds through conditional statements: if this is true, then the following is also true (if x then y), a rule sometimes called modus ponens (also common is the negative inversion of this, called modus tollens: if x then y; because not x, then not y). You can find logical inferences all over the place in minesweeper (e.g., whenever I see 2 1 2 in a row without any other surrounding tiles, the “1” is always a mine); one inference then usually leads to another, and then another. Group these commonly occurring sequences of logical inference into larger, but really quite subtle, patterns, and the speed of your analysis increases exponentially. In the above scenario, however, this heuristic “shorthand” form of logic will not work. All the positions are too complicated (at least, for my current level of understanding of the system).

The second kind of logic you can use is a counter-factual brute force approach. This also uses methods of deductive inference, but rather than folding commonly recurring sequences into easily identifiable patterns, it takes an uncommon section of the game and works through every possible variation until one “good” one is found. It is time consuming, laborious, and inimical to the speed of success. It is also very difficult to get quick at this mode of reasoning, without converting a painfully worked out logical sequence into a rule. That’s right: all the examples of the first series of pattern recognition logic are tricks and shortcuts I discovered by working through a whole heap of brain-freezing “if-then” counterfactual scenarios, using brute-force and trial and error. Through practice, I gradually converted these from the slow, second type of logic to the first, expedient type. By internalizing the “proof” for each of these tricks, I could eventually call them rules of the system, with 100% certainty. But that certainty had to be earned.

There is a third approach, however, and that’s just flat-out guessing. It’s unfortunate that minesweeper so often requires this, but such is life.

Rather than work through every possible if-then situation from the previous picture, I just guessed. Once. The rest of the board opened up like a boiled clam. Only now, as you can see, I’ll have to guess again at least once more to win the game. There’s no escaping it. But leading up to these two guessing-impasses, I was able to get a taste of that special state of rapid pattern recognition that makes puzzle-solving such a joy. It’s no exaggeration that you can begin to experience minesweeper as a conceptual landscape, with its own architecture and geography. I am convinced that once a certain threshold is passed in the skill of a player (reflecting both the quantity of patterns learned, and the degree to which they have been assimilated), he or she actually stops thinking. The mind shuts off; the calculating part of the brain goes from working furiously to not working at all. It is an incredible feeling, a zen state of no-mind, that nevertheless preserves (and in fact produces) a very high level of technical skill.

And sometimes, it even helps you win!

The Kinect works better when it actually works

Nintendo:  First Attempt

Next, I headed for Nintendo, hoping to get my hands on the 3DS, or maybe even check out the demo for Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword or Metroid: Other M.  Again, I was disappointed.  No technical difficulties here, though…Nintendo had simply stolen the show on Wednesday and EVERYONE at E3 was in line to see if Nintendo’s games and hardware lived up to the hype.  I decided to check back in on Nintendo later, hoping that the mile-long line would eventually die down.

Sony

I made my way to Sony’s “booth” to take the Move for a test-drive.  RELIEF.  The line was only about ten people long.  I allowed myself to get excited.  Maybe the Move would be a game changer!  Maybe the Move technology would make Wii MotionPlus seem like, well…Wii MotionPlus.  Maybe motion-controls coupled with HD graphics and the PS3′s insane processing power would put Sony back on top in the console wars!

Then my excitement came crashing down to earth as an overweight Sony security guard who could obviously care less about videogames strolled by the line and demanded all eleven of us get in a single-file line or else we would not be permitted to test out the Move.  Dear reader, I assure you that all eleven of us were in a single-and-a-half-file line at worst.  Even if there had been ANY traffic near Sony’s Move demo area (which there wasn’t), we would not have obstructed the traffic in any way.  Did Sony really need to threaten us?  Of course not.  In fact, Sony probably should have thanked us for actually being mildly interested in their product.

Fat, useless security guards: great at the box office, not-so-great at E3

After shifting over a half-step to my right and waiting in the newly single-file line for another five minutes, I was led into a room where a well-trained — but not particularly enthusiastic — Sony rep led me through two levels of The Shoot, an on-rails, family-friendly FPS that took place on a movie studio lot, allowing for shootouts with a diverse selection of baddies, from cowboys to aliens to robots.

My impression of the Move?  Fairly underwhelming.  Perhaps it was a little more sensitive than the Wii MotionPlus, but the gameplay of The Shoot was less immediately intuitive than any Wii game I’ve played.  And sure, the HD graphics were nice, but The Shoot struck me as essentially providing a nearly identical experience to that of an on-rails arcade shooter from the 1990′s.  I left with a resounding, “Meh.”

Nintendo

When I returned to Nintendo later in the afternoon, the line had died down considerably.  I took my place in a stanchion-guarded line (eliminating the need for surly security guards) and was surprised to find a number of Nintendo reps walking around with 3DS-es strapped to their belts, letting everyone in line actually see the technology while waiting in line to see the technology!  Sure, the images on the 3DS-es amounted to nothing more than a slide-show, but I had seen the 3DS’s capabilities after waiting in line for only five minutes.  It only made me more eager to see what was at the end of the line…

Waiting to see the 3DS? Here, see the 3DS while you wait!

But while I waited in line, I looked around and saw people testing out the new Kirby game, the new Zelda game and the new Mario basketball game.  Nintendo didn’t simply stick people in a line, they used the line as an opportunity to expose fans to other Nintendo products.  And towards the end of the line, I ended up chatting with a very friendly representative who told me he’d been a repair technician with Nintendo since the GameBoy days!  So I nerded out about GameBoy for five minutes, making my wait just a little more entertaining than if the representatives had ALL been booth babes.

After about 40 minutes,the Nintendo reps began thanking everyone for waiting, then blocked off traffic and funneled us eager fanboys & girls to an upstairs area FILLED with 3DS-es.  They informed us that we had 20 minutes to try out the 3DS and as many demos as we liked.  I first made my way to a Paper Mario demo.  Then a Metal Gear demo.  Then a submarine sim demo.  Then Kid Icarus.  Then Nintendogs.  I felt like a kid on Christmas, each present leaving me more excited for the next one.  By the time my 20 minutes was up, I had had my fill.  My mind was blown.  I was ready to go.

Customer Service Is More than Window Dressing

After getting to try out the Kinect through a third-party publisher’s game, I never made it back to Microsoft’s official demo area.  It seemed well-laid out, with friendly, athletic representatives, but I had other things to see, other games to play.

Which led me to muse a bit on how important customer service is, especially at an event like E3 where people will be writing about products and — hopefully — generating buzz for upcoming product releases.  The customer service I experienced from the three hardware developers made me think that Nintendo will continue to dominate the console wars this generation…and probably through the next generation of hardware, too.  It’s more than just pretty girls with 3DS belts.  It’s the fact that Nintendo very obviously cared about crafting a positive user experience with their products.  This kind of care started when I got in line, continued as I waited in line and carried on as I was given freedom to experience the 3DS as I wanted to, with multiple game demos.  And if this much care and thought is put into simply DEMO-ing the hardware, I can’t even imagine how much effort is put into designing and testing the games and systems with a positive user experience in mind.  It’s more evidence that the Wii and DS are not mere “gimmicks,” but rather the products of an extraordinarily purpose-driven development strategy.

Meanwhile, Sony was arrogant and disappointing while Microsoft’s much-hyped product was hampered by malfunctioning equipment.  Just sitting here and typing this out, it’s difficult for me to believe that these three companies lived up to their stereotypes so perfectly, but that’s the simple truth.

If you haven’t done so already, take a look at the timeline and get your panties in a twist.  Then come back here for some (mostly) rational thoughts on the subject.

Read the timeline?  Great.  Now, I don’t care if you hate on Activision/Blizzard.  Hate on Activision/Blizzard all you want.  But before you go hating on Activision/Blizzard, I beg you to consider the following four important points:

1.  Most Entertainment Products Lose Money…a LOT of Money

Whether it’s music albums, video games, movies, or TV shows, entertainment products are not typically profitable.  A TV network, for example, will spend tens of millions of dollars producing a slate of pilot TV episodes, only a handful of which will appeal to advertisers enough to merit broadcast.  Then the network has to spend millions of dollars advertising those new pilots, and of those pilots that make it on air, only one or two will actually last long enough to be profitable through syndication.  So a TV network spends, say 50 million dollars up front, and hopes to make back 60 million dollars over the course of 10 years.  Pretty risky, and only financially viable if you have deep pockets and a willingness to make tough decisions.

Video games are somewhat similar.  A publisher like Activision/Blizzard pumps tens of millions into funding a slate of games.  Unlike TV, all of those games are likely to go to market.  Like TV, many of those games are not going to be profitable.  In order to maintain positive relationships with distributors like Best Buy and GameStop, a publisher like Activision/Blizzard has to buy back large portions of unsold inventory, or give the distributors enormous discounts on future purchases.  That can get pretty expensive.

So Activision/Blizzard does its best to maximize profits of those games that do make money, and Activision/Blizzard does so through some pretty creative ways.  They turn games into franchises, giving gamers MORE great Call of Duty, Guitar Hero and Marvel: Ultimate Alliance titles.  They offer gamers more in-game items and options in World of Warcraft.  They charge customers for services rendered and products sold.  And all that money gamers pay for “character recustomization” and Guitar Hero: Sixpence None the Richer doesn’t just go into Bobby Kotick’s pockets; it covers next year’s slate of games.

2.  Activision/Blizzard Is a Business

The author of the timeline includes the notable event that Activision acting CFO Thomas Tipple was named the COO of Blizzard, and implies outrage at the fact that Tipple’s contract is structured so that “Tippl basically gets paid more, the more revenue the company makes.”  At this point in the blog post, I will stop referring to the author of the timeline as “the author” and instead begin referring to him/her as HEY ASSHOLE.  HEY ASSHOLE, for your information, stipulating performance-based financial incentives in a contract is fairly standard practice for any management position in any company in any industry.  Now, HEY ASSHOLE, I see that you are posting from Germany, so let me see if I can put this in terms you can understand:  America is not full of socialist weasels, and you and everyone in your sausage-loving country are not so far removed from bowing to fascist and communist dictators that my American ass is going to passively listen to your abject inability to understand the way that capitalism works.  HEY ASSHOLE, read a book and figure out how the world works…or at the very least temper your idiocy.

Taking the moral high ground against these wall-building fucks is almost too easy. Almost.

You know how everyone in your country is pissed about Greece and Italy dragging down the value of your shared currency?  Part of the reason it’s easy for them to do so is because they are incentivized to take advantage of the system because they know that wealthy countries like you will bail them out.  Create a system that incentivizes people to work hard and earn money, and they are more likely to work hard and earn money.  Novel concept, right?

Activision is a business, and the goal of a business is to make a profit by providing a service to the general public.  Things like “incentives for employees” and “charging customers for services rendered and products sold” are ways businesses achieve their goals.  They’re pretty standard, be it at a mega-corporation like Wal-Mart or your local vegan coffee shop.

(Note that I really don’t have anything against sausage.  I had chicken-apple sausage with penne a la vodka for dinner last night, and it was delicious.)

3.  Until You Stop Paying Activision/Blizzard Your Money, Activision Is Right

So you’re pissed that Activision/Blizzard dropped Brütal Legend and Ghostbusters: The Video Game because they didn’t fit the Activision/Blizzard business model?  Yeah, maybe you should quit bitching about it and actually buy the damn games.  Both of those games under-performed and probably lost money, so it looks like Activision/Blizzard made a pretty good decision.  I actually bought Ghostbusters, I played it and I enjoyed it.  I’m glad it got published, but as a businessman, I can’t argue with the top line.  If every game company made games solely based off of what I wanted to play, the world would be a worse place.  (Without giving away too many details, I imagine every year would see a deluge of Kirby games, sex sims and sex-with-Kirby sims.)

So every once in a while, shut your mouth, check VGChartz.com and give ten seconds worth of thought to whether or not your unique tastes are appealing enough to a broad audience to justify tens of millions of dollars of development costs.  Don’t like the fact that Starcraft II offers players such an extraordinary amount of content that it had to be broken into three games?  Don’t buy it.  Don’t play it.  If enough people share your opinion, you can guarantee Starcraft III will be only one storyline with one point of view and one set of missions.  However, I’m going to take a wild guess and say that Starcraft II is going to be a monster success, both critically and financially.  Anyone want to put money against me?

Vegas puts the over/under at 12 kafrillion dollars

4.  Gamers Are Nut-Jobs

When third party publishers NOT named Activision/Blizzard complain about Nintendo cutting them out of the development process for the Wii and blame Nintendo for lackluster sales on the consoles, gamers lambast Nintendo and rant about Nintendo’s supposed glory days…you know, those 10 years when nobody actually bought Nintendo consoles.

However, when Activision/Blizzard looks at a market made up of three different players – Nintendo, Sony and Microsoft – offering consoles with drastically different technological capabilities and suggests that, as the world’s dominant publisher who spends hundreds of millions on royalties simply to MANUFACTURE games for each system, MAYBE the console developers should include the publisher on the hardware creation process, gamers go ape shit and declare, “How DARE Activision BULLY those POOR console manufacturers?”

(Not like having more, better games for each system would actually be a good thing for gamers.)

Gamers, have a bowl of Grape Nuts tomorrow morning…you could do with a little consistency.

Delicious...and nutritious!

Derrida’s essay on the subject (titled “Différance”) is a tour de force of post-modern nonsense.  Here’s a fairly representative passage:

Now if différance is (and I also cross out the is) what makes possible the presentation of the being-present, it is never presented as such. It is never offered to the present. Or to anyone. Reserving itself, not exposing itself, in regular fashion it exceeds the order of truth at a certain precise point, but without dissimulating itself as something, as a mysterious being, in the occult of a nonknowledge or in a hole with indeterminable borders (for example, in a topology of castration). In every exposition it would be exposed to disappearing as disappearance. It would risk appearing: disappearing.

I have almost no idea what he’s going on about here, but I think it is possible to understand the concept of différance by thinking about it in terms of board games…because board games explain everything.

In every exposition it would be exposed to disappearing as disappearance. It would risk appearing: disappearing.

Two weeks ago I described how Saussure’s structural linguistics can be understood as a system of formal, logical relationships, much like a game of chess, and how his methods offered the possibility to getting at logical truths in humanities research.  Last week I described how Derrida undermined those claims to truth by pointing out that our structuring principles are themselves conventional and arbitrary and ungrounded in reality.  The goal is not to arrive at truth, according to Derrida, the goal is interpretation or play for its own sake.  Différance might best be understood as an example of this kind of play—a “play of the world without truth, without origin.”

Sooner or later all our games turn into Calvinball

As I have discussed previously, absolute mastery of a game tends to ruin play.  Adults no longer play tic-tac-toe precisely because they have mastered it.  Even in a complex game like chess too much mastery can be antithetical to play.  The late World Chess Champion (and racist lunatic) Bobby Fisher felt that the memorization of set-piece openings had ruined the early portion of the game, and so he advocated a version of chess in which the initial setup of the pieces is randomized so that players are forced to start from unfamiliar positions and actually think about their moves.  To put it another way, using a different set of structuring principles defers mastery of the game, and reactivates creative thinking and play.  As I have argued before, there is nothing objective or logically necessary about the rules and structure of the game; the rules are there to facilitate to play.  Derrida’s characterization of différance precisely describes how play function in relation to the structure of a game:

In the delineation of différance everything is strategic and adventurous. Strategic because no transcendent truth present outside the field of writing can govern theologically the totality of the field.  Adventurous because this strategy is not a simple strategy in the sense that strategy orients tactics according to a final goal, a telos or theme of domination, a mastery and ultimate reappropriation of the development of the field. Finally, a strategy without finality, what might be called blind tactics or empirical wandering if the value of empiricism did not itself acquire its entire meaning in its opposition to philosophical responsibility. If there is a certain wandering in the tracing of différance, it no more follows the lines of philosophical-logical discourse than that of its symmetrical and integral inverse, empirical-logical discourse. The concept of play keeps itself beyond this opposition, announcing, on the eve of philosophy and beyond it, the unity of chance and necessity in calculations without end.

Derrida reminds us that arriving at truth is no more the goal of research than arriving at total understanding is the goal of playing chess; the goal is the play itself.  He does not suggest we abandon logic or empiricism (without the rules we could not play the game), only that we remember that they do not give us access to truth.  He reminds us that the rules could very well be different, that they can and will change, and that the endless deferral of complete understanding that will result from these changes is fundamental to the whole process.

In this sense, Derrida sees academic research as something very similar to Calvinball.

The only permanent rule in Calvinball is that you can't play it the same way twice

In this sense, Derrida sees academic research as something very similar to Calvinball.  It is easy to think of Calvinball as a sort of pure, abstract, freeform, “anything goes” play, but this would be to completely misunderstand the game.  Complex, exacting rules are absolutely essential to Calvinball—they are what precisely what facilitate the play—but Calvin and Hobbes realize that total understanding and mastery of the rules would ruin the game.  The rules have to be different every time in order to forever defer the end of play.  When Derrida says that différance “unceasingly dislocates itself in a chain of differing and deferring substitutions” he could be paraphrasing Calvin when he says, “The only permanent rule in Calvinball is that you can’t play it the same way twice” (but it is important to remember that changing the rules every time is not an end in itself either, it is merely a cause and result of play).  It is also entirely appropriate to Derrida’s thinking when Calvin says “Sooner or later, all our games turn into Calvinball.”

It’s not a board game, but perhaps Calvinball is the best possible explanation of différance.

Andrew, chief editor supreme of Little Bo Beep, seated on his gilded bodily evacuation receptacle and perfumed douche machine, opened yet another gaming magazine special issue devoted entirely to his blog. Yawning, he forced the magazine through an overflowing slot in the wall labelled “Celebratory Printed Materials Recycling” and deactivated the automated pedicure device and flowery scented wafting valve. He washed his hands and opened the door to the raised somatic purification facility, but not before winking slyly at the poster of John Tesh pasted on the inside of the door, and stepped down from the facility’s dais to the main floor of the Little Bo Beep headquarters.

“I’m so bored,” he said to Jack, who was idly toying with his eight-monitor display of web traffic analytics and market data.

“God, I know.” ‘God’ was Andrew’s nickname around the office. “It’s impossible to do any sort of interesting data mining. All the graphs demonstrate constant linear growth. Totally predictable.” It was true. All the monitors displayed graphs, stock figures, and charts representing Little Bo Beep’s outrageous success in the blogosphere. It was like an insane geologist had pasted a bunch of topographical maps of mountains all over the screens, but had sliced off the right halves.

“Incoming!” shouted Paul, as he swooped down from the 200-foot square skylight ceiling with retractable observatory dome on a military-grade poly-carbonate hand glider, high-fived both Andrew and Jack, and zipped past into one of the headquarters’ many underground tunnels.

An explosion of organ music erupted suddenly from an adjoining room. “Is Eric hooked up to his synaptic music engine again?”

Jack nodded, stifling a yawn, “Yeah, he’s brain-generating another improvisational 8-part fugue.”

“That’s, what, the ninth one this week?”

“Tenth, actually. But he’s simultaneously dictating his latest article to a voice transcriber. I think it’s entitled, ‘Plangent Penis Plants in Obscure Japanese Sega Genesis Titles, Redux’.”

“What is with his fascination with penises?”

“You know, I can HEAR you,” came Eric’s voice from a tentacular robot mouth appendage that protruded up from a sliding floor panel.

Andrew shrugged, “Doesn’t change the basic underlying truth of that statement.”

“Ohh the sweet, delicate textures of sound, they suffuse me!” said the Eric-mouth, which vibrated for a minute, then receded quietly into the ground, purring. Just then Jack’s diamond-studded phone began playing NSync’s “I Want You Back”.

“Man, it’s Goldman-Sachs again. They’re so desperate. Sorry, dude, I gotta take this.”

“Yeah no problem. I’m going to go check on Julian, see he’s not hurting himself or anything.”

Andrew walked over to a large red X marked on the floor nearby, sighed, and shouted, “Ladder of Impervious Knowledge and Absolute Verification, Descend!”

A deep voice echoed from high above, “Your request for access to knowledge is being evaluated for logical consistency. Please stand by.” A minute later a single sonorous BOOP reverberated through the room, “Your request has been granted. Ladder descending.” A dual-helical ladder in the shape of DNA slowly spun downwards from the ceiling to the red X. Andrew climbed up it, trying not to read the bronze plaques embedded in each rung, but he always found himself scanning at least one or two:

TRUTH IS THE COEFFICIENT OF YOUR FINITE DAYS MULTIPLIED BY THE SQUARE OF YOUR ABILITY TO UNDERSTAND.

and

THE ALMIGHTY LOGOS IS THE BASIS OF ALL ALEATORY PROPOSITIONS, AS SIGNIFIED BY THE STOCHASM OF PARTICLE SUPER-POSITION IN THE ENTROPIC SUBSTRATUM OF CONSCIOUSNESS.

Pushing up the trap door into Julian’s loft, Andrew immediately ducked as a large alembic carrying a boiling green liquid whipped past his head and exploded on a bust of Sir Francis Bacon, dissolving it instantly. “Julian? What’s… oh dear.” Julian was currently riding in the glass cockpit of a steam-powered brass exoskeleton, whose tubular arms were currently grappling with an enormous baroque cube covered with numerical equations, levers, gears, and pistons, and whose parts were rapidly reassembling in the manner of a lunatic rubic’s cube. Prehensile pincers were darting out from sections of the cube, snagging objects from around the room, and hurling them in random directions. Julian’s massive chemistry workshop lay in ruins on the floor, and his four story library had large gaping holes where entire shelves had been ripped off.

“Be with you in smidge, old chap,” said Julian just as he brought down an extremely heavy-looking marble pedestal onto the box, smashing it into a thousand flopping pieces. With a gush of pressurized air, the cockpit opened and Julian, covered in black grease and wearing a leather aviator cap replete with goggles, leaped out. “Beg pardon for the mess, guv’nor. Introduced a few too many conditional statements in the moral sub-cortex.”

“Oh, was this your life-sized interactive representation of the Logico-Philosophico Tractatus?” said Andrew, picking up a throbbing metallic heart.

“The very same. Pity. I’d only reached level 6.2. What can I do for you?”

“Julian, I’m deadly bored. We’ve reached the absolute pinnacle of success; our influence over every aspect of the gaming industry is undeniable; we have more followers on Twitter than Jesus; but despite all that, the games these days just aren’t getting any better. What can we do?”

“Well. I’ve been keeping something secret from all of you, because I suspected your combined intelligences were inadequate to deal responsibly or productively with it.” Andrew nodded. “I received this parcel in the mail a few days ago, but I do now believe it is something we should take a look at.” He opened a boudoir shaped into a large chess queen, and handed Andrew a manila envelope. A big red stamp on the envelope said:

FOR LITTLE BO BEEP’S EDITORS ONLY. UNAUTHORIZED READING WILL RESULT IN SEVERE TERMINATION. YOUR FRIENDS: THE DEVELOPERS.

“Who the hell are these guys?” said Andrew, as Julian pressed a button and lowered them both down to the main room on a circular platform.

“My sources tell me they are an obscure cabbalistic design studio possibly operating in trans-dimensional space/time.”

“Figures.” Andrew opened the envelope and pulled out a non-descript DVD case. The title was simple: THE SECRET GAME. “Wow, it even has an ESRB rating. But it’s one I’ve never seen before. What does KA stand for?”

“It probably stands for Keter-Atziluth, or the upper crown. It’s the highest possible sephiroth. You’re dealing with pure metaphysical gaming here. Only suitable for the absolute pinnacle of consciousness.”

“Hey Paul,” Andrew called out to his friend, who was currently hanging upside down from a sick tufa on their indoor 5.15b climbing route. As usual, he was free-soloing.

“Yeah? What’s UP?!” he called back.

“Ready for an adventure?”

To be continued…

no
need to bait the
niggers and the spics, pimps and nips

they’ll get what’s coming, fuck yeah they’ll
get what’s due

but until that eventually i’ll keep the code, let the
heroin flow
and the coca leaves grow

no need to show my hatred
if my hatred can’t have its way with the world

i’ll just keep it inside
and not quite alive, a beautiful
beast chained to my anger
and waiting…
waiting
in quiet anticipation, dangerous
in the corners of my shadows the shadows cast
by the unforgiving wings of a
dark, dark angel

let chinatown have its wars

let night have the whores

i will have my hatred as i ride

The ORIGINAL Avatar... well, that is, uhm, besides Krishna. And, I guess, arguably, Jesus.

Surely Bob Dylan never imagined his classic refrain, “How many roads must a man walk down…” being adapted to the language of video gaming, but here goes: “How many games must a man walk down, before they call him a man?” The answer is probably non-denumerably infinite, but for the sake of brevity I’ll just offer the more reasonable, and decidedly finite, 361! (factorial), which happens to be the number of possible moves extant at the beginning of a game of Go. Now rumour has it that’s a number larger than the total quantity of particles in the entire universe (a figure also exceeded by the possibilities of synaptic combinations in the brain, interestingly enough). What does this tell us?

Probably nothing. But we’ve got to start somewhere, and where better than with a modest analogue of consciousness transcribed into the language of mathematics? Sure, sure, been done. But really, there’s something going on here. Consider for example the question: What happens to us when we die in a game? I mean, we’re not really dying, but our avatar is. Again, and again, and again, at a rate inversely proportional to our decaying motor reflexes. That’s got to affect us somehow, right? Let me make the connection between numerical vastness and consciousness a little bit stronger.

Krishna, the God of Ambiguous Gender... and flutes.

When we die in a game we experience that death vicariously. Vicarious is precisely the word, too: it comes from the Latin vicarius, meaning a substitute. A vicar is likewise a person who is authorized to perform the functions of another. Our video game alter-ego is perhaps more like a vicar than an avatar (which by contrast means a deity descended into an embodied form in the world; but I won’t deny the capacity of some gamers to believe themselves gods in their limited domains – why deny them such pleasures?).

It goes without saying we are connected to our vicars. They stand in for us, assuming our duties and responsibilities within the game, and like true servants of a deity receive their instructions as if from on high. We input data into a gaming system by means of haptic (or touch-based, physical) interfaces. The game interprets the data according to various more or less complex algorithms, and in turn our characters, the vicars, react and respond with the appearance of immediacy. One of the great accomplishments of gaming is condensing an extremely complex causal sequence, beginning at the user’s end and concluding with the behaviour of the game itself, into the form of a single and direct transaction. But these transactions are anything but direct causal events.

One of the characteristics of complex systems is that they can only be fully understood by other complex systems. The mind is inordinately complex, and is therefore extremely good at understanding other examples of complexity. Doubtlessly, however, it does not require a game of extreme complexity to create an impact (whether emotional or simply informational) on the consciousness of a user. Many people have very fond memories of playing Tetris, for example, which is so simple that it is one of the very few games that can be coded entirely in the browser-endemic programming language JavaScript. But the complexity of these relatively simple earlier games is tied together inextricably with the innate and self-reflexive structures and meanings of human consciousness.

A more or less accurate representation of the imbrication of consciousness with art.

When we play a game, no matter how ornate or simple, we are automatically imbricating it with layers of personal meaning and inherited signification. The game occurs therefore in a non-linear sequence of events that extends back to the beginning of our lives, and even beyond that to the earliest inception of consciousness. As soon as the lineage of human thought began to haul itself above a basic state of necessity and ask certain fundamental questions about itself, and the world, we set in motion a system of complex, essentially self-referential, thought. Heidegger talks at length about the notion of the dasein, which translates simply to that-being, and in a very crude sense can be understood as a being for whom its existence is an issue, a point of concern or interrogation. A question.

How then do video games interface with the questioning existence of dasein? We are all that-beings, who propagate complexity by breathing and thinking, and who are ideally positioned to do so by being the inheritors of a long history of thought. The combinations of synaptic processes in a single brain can be compared in a way to a miracle of physics. That thought occurs is alone a breathtaking source of wonder. But these synapses are not merely burned into history and then discarded. They carry on, like the continuation through time of a vastly intricate and polyfurcated electric chain.

To return, and rephrase, my original question: How do games affect who we are? How does a death in a game impinge on our sense of self? When we die is our consciousness affected? What proximate values do we impart to our gaming vicars? What parts of ourselves do we transmit to them in their corrals of programming and data? Our consciousness persists when the vicar is extinguished, sure, but because we are complex and games are ever-increasingly also complex, the relationship between these two must necessarily (I argue) be complex. It seems unlikely to me (though admittedly, probably not impossible) that two complex systems in interaction would produce a simple outcome.

If we accept, at least provisionally, that the interaction between user and game is definitionally complex, does it follow that the individual events that occur within each of those systems are likewise complex? Not necessarily. It is true in a sense that the individual units of data that comprise a game system are at their most fundamental level totally simple (binary ones and zeroes). Nevertheless, the meaning produced by the interactions of those basic units will register on a higher, much more elaborate level. There are orders of complexity, ranging from the top-most level of system-wide organization, right down to the most basic and unitary substrate of raw, particulate information.

Life, consciousness and art are all gardens of forking paths. So, too, is David Bowie.

So when I paraphrase Dylan and ask how many games must I play to be a man, I am not attempting to bastardize a good song or invoke traditional gender norms, but rather trying to assert that the boundaries of consciousness are permeable and responsive to interactions with complexity beyond the protean boundaries of mind. The very presence of possibility represented by the number 361! changes how I think. To stare at a Go board is to come face to face with the incomprehensible vastness of mathematics. When we play a game we are likewise also engaging with a monumental tapestry of potential variation. The events that occur in a game may be rigidly defined and finite, but the combinations that occur between a game and the ever-changing infrastructure of my mind are essentially infinite.

The best answer I can come up with to that question is thus: An infinite number. We are who we are in the becoming of ourselves. By engaging with the world and its manifold variations we are simultaneously defining who we are. Games contribute to this definition in more ways than I can describe. Death in games is likewise only one event among many, but it has the unique and paradoxical quality of being understood by the living as the absolute cessation of consciousness. How then are we defined by an experience of death that is perpetually repeatable, almost transient and inconsequential?

I’ll continue to examine this question in a subsequent article.

Damn, your body is criminal!
and I get animal the way
I can’t stand
not to run my hands all over you whenever you’re
near
by

Beautiful is not the right word
because beautiful
doesn’t PISS ME OFF and i can
never tell
which of your guns is the loaded one
(and which one you just
flash
for fun)

hush…

Stun me with your sly lips, illegal
hips and eyes that
never hesitate to
let me in
just for an instant
to glimpse all those terrible
things inside

You have no idea how many
men i’d kill, pills
i’d shill and
graves i’d dig
or days I’d live
behind bars
just to drive your
getaway car
and get you
to think those terrible thoughts
about me

Why do we play games? The obvious answer, and doubtlessly true, is that we play games in order to be entertained, but that seems altogether too simplistic and easy an answer. The sources of entertainment in our culture are legion; our choices are abundant and ever changing. Why are games rapidly becoming the most lucrative and pervasive form of entertainment in the world? They may not yet have completely usurped the dominance of film and television, but they are quickly gaining ground. Why? What is their appeal to our culture? Does their relevance reside purely on the generic level of Western affluence (which can afford the ostentation of electronic amusement?) Or does it extend beyond civilization, to something innate in what it means to be human, and alive?

'Uhm. Sorry Descartes... that's not quite what I had in mind.' 'PINEAL GLAND!!!' 'Rene, dude, seriously. I like you and all, but you are standing WAY too close.' 'PINEAL!!! GLAND!!!'

Truth be told, I often can’t decide whether to lavish games with love or loathing. They came into my life, or more accurately I chose to embrace them, when I was much younger. I was suffering from a noxious kind of self-loathing that had me at odds with not only my physical animus – the uncomfortable and generalized awareness of my body that stuck with me at all hours of the day, except when my consciousness was powerfully siphoned by the exigencies of the electronic arts – but also suffering from a terrible and sustained conflict with my cognitive self. My mind was at war with its own thoughts. I had no tranquility or peace of mind, even for a moment, except when I turned on my computer or gaming console. Then a sort of mild sedation descended over me, and for a time the clamour of my thoughts retreated to a dull, barely audible murmur. Video games were an out, in a way, by being an in. They took the raw stuff of my undiluted ego-mind and shunted it unceremoniously into the pathways of preordained symbolic narratives and structured stimulus-response systems. They jacked me in. I was hooked from the raw age of fourteen. With all the juvenile energy I could muster I set to mastering my solitary, self-imposed confinement.

Mill: The quintessential physiognomic archetype of 'chillaxing'. He was all mellow yellow, as evinced by the concave cheeks, protrusive cheekbones, angled brows, and leathery epidermis.

The lesson of my youth, in contradistinction perhaps to people like John Stuart Mill, whose stringent and exhaustive pedagogical upbringing drove him to a nervous breakdown at the age of 20, was that the world’s harsh realities were best avoided, and that my lot in life was not to learn and grow but to forebear. Forbearance: the nineties of my adolescence was a perfect testing ground to experiment with this notion. I would sulk and shill the hours of my waking unhappiness to the glowing box, and pay daily fealty to this weird god by neglecting the very energies that might otherwise have dislodged me from my depressive furore. I don’t know what those energies were, or where they might have been found, but I knew enough to say they were not comprised of pixels and 8-bit sound, nor were their luminaries the iconic sages of video gaming repertory, the cave-inhabitant wizards who give you swords and an encouraging wink with which to tackle evil. Where were the genuine secrets of manna that might fall from heaven to sustain me through my desert?

The Humphrey Bogart-esque facet of my mind takes this moment to pull me aside and say with sly benevolence, “You were looking in the wrong place, kid,” and I was. Games are what they are, you know, and what they’re most definitely not is the Holy Writ. Not to say I need an existential epiphany from my Grim Fandangoes, or a theophantic revelation from my Deus Ex Machinas, but so help me I sure did then, before a puritanical atheism took me by storm and colonized my outlying islands of doubt under the stalwart banner of ‘We Fend for Ourselves’. Far be it from me to announce some arbitrary requirement to which gaming ought to adhere; after all, gaming has fared quite well for itself without being moralized or made awkwardly pedantic. Not being a game designer, and being too poor in clout to affect their opinions, I generally must content myself by engaging with my personal, and active, relationship to the games themselves.

'So, where can a mental apparition get a drink around here?' 'Sorry, sir, this is a DRY brain.'

Gaming, more than any other art form, is ergodic. This word, meaning ‘involving work’, is one of those pretentious sounding designators that once in a while gets slapped onto fiction. It designates a type of literature that ‘transcends’ the normal passive level of interaction betwixt book and audience by demanding an extra bit of involvement from the latter. There is no such transcendent process in gaming: the activity of work is not only presumed in the form, but is integral to its success. The Aristotelian notion of arete, or virtue, refers specifically to that quality of a thing that permits it to realize its nature, to achieve its excellence. What the virtue of games is I cannot here say; such a notion would involve a rather lengthy discourse with heady words and a lingering flavour of intellectual snobbery. (I shall endeavour to do so later.) What I can say with some certainty is that whatever the virtue of gaming might be, rest assured it is tied inextricably to the logic of work.

This is all to say that games are active. I might even be daring and suggest they are the most active art form ever created. Nothing else seems to come close, with the exception perhaps of a spontaneous musical jam session, where the audience is indistinguishable from the artist. These two examples are nevertheless qualitatively different: the jam session is governed by the ebb and flow of musical voices; its logic will only and always remain specifically confined to the instrumental capacities of each musician (further restricted by the natural limitations of his or her instrument). The game, on the other hand, is a confrontation between the aggregative hive-mind of intention and invention that is the game developer, and the anticipated unpredictability of the user. The game is at once more free form and more structured than a musical composition, by being more susceptible to the anarchic unpredictability of a user, and likewise far more under the control of the artist’s specific determinisms.

They told Frooti van der Frootison not to go into agriculture, but did he listen? Frooti's Fruits was a total disaster.

When I say that my youth was one of forbearance, I am speaking to the incongruence of having relished and subsisted on the insubstantial nourishment of gaming: the games I played involved tremendous work, but the countless hours of labour produced nothing but a state of absolute passivity. How could this be possible? How could my sweat, rage, and complete mental and, yes, physical devotion be so overwhelmingly inconsequential? Fallow? Bereft? I slavered for years at the altar of self-abolition, and produced in myself only the quintessential lesson of Stoicism: you are powerless over the world, therefore defy its power over you by abnegating its effects. Stoic power is a refusal to be affected by power. The saintly cheek of Christ turned to defy the hateful blow. I, in my intensive, highly focused ‘distractions’ (which word ever-increasingly strikes my retrospection as an insulting misnomer) became progressively less substantial: in my ergon, work, I ceased by degrees to exist.

But it was a lie, of sorts (insofar as a thing never intended to be cathartic could be faulted for failing to be so). My suffering did not disperse or become transformed. It burrowed deeper and took root. The action promised by games amounted to misdirection. The work never rebounded upon me. The fruits of my labour evaporated into binary dust. Was this the fault of games, or my own inability to approach the medium in a healthy and productive way? I’ll continue to explore these questions next week.