Gaming on a Timer

A Casual Glance – The Grind, And How To Implement It

In A Casual Glance we’ll be having a look at various aspects of game design from the perspective of a casual observer (i.e. no hands-on experience in the games industry or professionally working on covering them, just as a player experiencing them) – this week we’ll be talking about the concept of grinding in games and taking a look at a few examples of implementation, both good and bad.

During the last few days, there’s been a few discussions on grinding in games going on at the 100Pals Achievement Discord Server. While I’m not quite sure what inspired all of them, I can take some guesses: within the past couple of weeks, Capcom announced that their flagship title Monster Hunter World would be getting an expansion in Q3 2019 (Iceborne); Grinding Gears’ Path of Exile received its biggest expansion thus far (Betrayal); and on a more general note, the end-of-year festivities have brought a series of events in most (if not all) of the perpetual play games that people are into (anything from WoW to Warframe, though the subject of perpetual play itself is probably something best suited for a future post).

The common thread in all these games is their reliance on grinding as a reward mechanism, in one capacity or another. In the interest of clarity – and since the term itself is interpreted in various ways – let’s set a definition of what constitutes “grinding” in a gaming environment.

Grinding comes in many forms, from looking for specific monster sizes to raising hunter ranks…

In broad strokes, we’ll be working under the assumption that grinding is the act of replaying already cleared content in order to gain an in-game reward, either due to said reward being awarded randomly or by requiring incremental build-up to acquire. Some more generic examples are:

  • Defeating a specific enemy repeatedly to earn an item (most prevalent in MMORPG’s with respawning enemies and random item drop chances – most famously World of Warcraft’s entire loot system is built upon this cycle)
  • Completing specific quests/missions to earn advancement currency more efficiently (such as finishing repeatable quests to earn experience or “reputation” points – a prime example is Monster Hunter World’s Hunter Ranks, which accumulate through all completed content but have a much higher rate of accretion within certain event-only quests, thus making them highly desirable to anyone wanting to raise their Hunter Rank efficiently)
  • Repeating specific content in order to unlock other forms of empowerment/rewards (such as materials for crafting – Warframe is an excellent case study where certain materials that are needed to make bigger and stronger weapons are more likely to drop in specific missions)

A keen-eyed reader will also notice that, aside from repetition, the other key word used is specific – grinding only applies when having a clearly-defined goal, be it “gaining level 30” or “improving your equipment” or “unlocking a new reputation level” (in the case of more vague goals, design comes under a variety of headings, most notably “perpetual play”).

This very specific nature of grinding is also why it can often go horribly wrong in its implementation – games, at least partially, rely on offering a sense of uniqueness, discovery, wonderment or similar to get players to “buy into the fantasy”, so to speak and there is nothing that kills off that aspect faster than requiring constant repetition of the same content over and over again.

As always and with the above in mind, we’ll be having a look at some examples that manage to either work around or with the limitations of grind-based systems, whether by refining the systems themselves or by complementing them via other, interlocking systems.

Framing The Question

Digital Extremes’ Warframe is probably one of the more well-known free-to-play titles currently on the market – following a rough start during its initial launch semester, the game was slowly (but steadily) refined into a massive sleeper hit. 

In Warframe, players take control of the titular Warframes, biomechanical suits of armor with powerful abilities, which act as the game’s class system – each Warframe handles differently, comes with a set of four unique skills and one (or more) passive abilities, with some best suited for taking fire, dealing damage, hiding and eliminating enemies in a stealthy manner, and so on and so forth.

There’s a huge variety of different Frames…

Being a free-to-play title, one of the major gameplay elements is grinding for more or less everything – weapons, Warframes, companions, equipment – every single piece of gear needs to be earned through grinding, often by acquiring the blueprints and materials needed to craft it. Naturally, as a free-to-play title, this system is complemented by an extensive microtransaction store, where a player can pay real-world money in order to expedite acquisition of said gear.

Taking a look at the overall free-to-play market, one can see that the majority of F2P titles on offer mostly fail to strike a balance between the grind and microtransaction parts of the system – these games often come across as too grindy (sic), in turn making microtransactions feel forced or unfair – and yet… Warframe somehow manages to avoid such criticism (for the most part). Why is that?

I believe that a big part of why grinding works in Waframe is that the core gameplay has been built with grinding being a core concept, rather than added at a later stage. A mistake that F2P games often make is using grind as a means to either inflate game time or increase difficulty artificially (once again, a subject best left for a future post) – often with the goal of making microtransactions feel more enticing. This will in turn lead to player fatigue, resentment and eventually low retention rates.

Warframe takes two steps in its design in order to avoid this. Firstly, the grinding is kept down to small, discrete projects – for example, while crafting every single weapon in the game might require hundreds upon hundreds of hours, any single one of them can be gained in a much smaller time frame, ranging from a couple of hours to a few days. Thus, the player never feels overwhelmed, always has a goal to work towards and (more importantly, owing to the aforementioned uniqueness of each item or gear piece) provides a wide variety of different gameplay styles and alterations.

…and an even bigger selection of weapons.

Secondly, by way of level and gameplay design, the developers make heavy use of rogue-lite principles to lessen the repetition – levels are constructed out of pre-made room configurations, with a wide variety of unique setups and features (such as environmental hazards and enemy type availability), while the selection of different game modes and objectives further enhances the randomized nature of available content. In doing so, Digital Extremes achieve a player experience that feels fresh and interesting several hundreds of hours later, the majority of which is spent grinding for more content (even if the player in question doesn’t aim to experience everything on offer).

Therefore, we can observe that grinding  can be implemented in such a way that it not only improves, but rather supports and enhances the entire experience – mitigating the repetition by designing against it and by breaking it up in smaller, better-managed segments.

On that subject, let’s have a look at another game which leans on these design ideas, but this time from the AAA space.

Hunting For Fun And Profit

In a lot of ways, Monster Hunter World follows the exact same “recipe” as Warframe: a wide variety of weapons and equipment that offer wildly different gameplay styles, quasi-randomized content (called investigations and coming with a series of random modifiers that alter the mission’s parameters) and an emphasis on building the player’s gear up by progressively playing harder content.

Where it differs though, is its in focus – while Warframe takes a quantitative approach (as evidenced by its procedural-generation of levels, as well as the huge variety of items and gear on offer), Monster Hunter World focuses more on interactions –  specifically between players and monsters. 

The series in general is a great example of enemy design and implementation, with  a huge amount of work apparently going into the game to make each monster feel unique. From a creature’s diet, habits, nesting and feeding areas, to its general behavior and hierarchy in its native biome, the developers have taken great pains to simulate a consistent ecosystem with bottom feeders, apex predators, herbivores, carnivores, and a large amount of other variables.

With 14 different weapon types to play around with (each handling in a significantly different way), you’ll not feel the grind anytime soon.

By using such a high degree of complexity in their core enemy design, Capcom achieve a type of replayability which works incredibly well on a fundamental level when combined with a degree of randomness – in this case, by introducing the player into the aforementioned ecosystem. Players can (and are encouraged to) exploit monsters’ weaknesses, habits and characteristics in order to gain an advantage – any one of a monster’s unique attributes can become a tool against them.

This randomness does not stem from player skill alone, either. As mentioned above, the game offers a wide array of gear, weapons and armor with which to kit out a player’s hunter – aside from providing some much-needed mechanical variety, it’s important to note that most (if not all) of these items are carefully balanced, in order to not have any one given weapon or gear set outperform its equivalents ( it’s important to note that not all gear is equal, just that any item is a valid option within its own power tier). As a result, each hunter can and usually performs a lot differently than their peers, offering a good deal of replayability and experimentation space (design-wise).

Similar to Warframe, the aforementioned gear is also gained by grinding through content – in this case, utilizing a random drop table for each monster, which can be affected by exploiting a monster’s damage model (a system in where certain parts of each monster can be destroyed, which affects their available movesets and item drops, for example by cutting a tail off in order to prevent them from attacking with it and gaining an extra item chance from the cut appendage itself).

The ecosystem has some cool little intereactions you can find out, as hinted here.

Therefore, we can observe that in Monster Hunter’s case, the grind is tied directly to progression (since both a player’s knowledge and gear rank is increased with each successful hunt ) and can also be affected by said knowledge and skill (cutting/breaking of specific monster parts during combat, which results in better/more specific rewards).

As a final note, it’s interesting to note that in both game examples, the designers have taken steps to include the grinding aspect into the main gameplay design  – be it Warframe’s huge variety of  missions, enemies, weapons and frames or MHW’s more limited but better-balanced selection of monsters, weapons and gear, everything seems to be tuned to support, encourage and benefit from grinding, while actively taking steps against the traditional problems arising from its use (boredom and a heavy feeling of repetition).

Perhaps, this is the most important design hurdle to overcome: how to make the grind feel like less of one, while keeping its functionality and purpose intact? Hopefully, the games we’ve examined here can provide some insight into answering this question – and if not, then it at least makes for interesting observations.

What are your preferences when it comes to grinding in games? Do you enjoy the methodical approach to it? Do you prefer games that try to “mix it up”? Share your thoughts in the comments section below!

A Casual Glance – Achievements Vs. Gameplay


In A Casual Glance we’ll be having a look at various aspects of game design from the perspective of a casual observer (i.e. no hands-on experience in the games industry or professionally working on covering them, just as a player experiencing them) – this week  we’ll be looking into various cases of achievement implementation and how they interact with the gameplay aspect of a game, whether successfully or not. with examples from speedrun and no-death/low-death achievements.

As a subset of game design, achievements can be both a versatile and intriguing tool to use for guiding a player’s experience – from hinting at possible alternative or hidden actions (such as Dishonored‘s “Clean Hands” achievement, awarded for completing the game with no enemies or story targets killed) to providing incentives to engage more with specific parts of the game (i.e. any variation on the “Kill x number of enemies” ever), if implemented correctly, they can greatly boost the enjoyment and entertainment value of a given product.

LIMBO is a great  example of trial-and-error design….

What happens when achievements are not implemented correctly though? In a recent discussion I participated in at the 100Pals Achievement Discord server, the subject of speedrunning and no-death/low-death achievements was discussed, giving rise to some very interesting observations on the subject of poorly-implemented achievement design.


Firstly, let’s examine what a “speedrunning” and what a “no-death” achievement actually is, just to establish a baseline for our examples:

As the names suggest, a speedrun achievement is one that requires a distinct segment of the game to be completed within a rigid time limit – such achievements might revolve around a specific mini-game (such as Warframe‘s “Counter Intelligence” achievement, for completing any Cipher mini-game in under 5 seconds), a full level or extended set-piece (Legend of Grimrock‘s “Dungeon Runner”, granted for completing the dungeon’s first floor in under 4 minutes) or even the entire game (DLC Quest‘s “Man That’s Fast!” achievement, which unlocks upon completing the entire original campaign within 12 minutes).

…especially in some instant-death situations, where it becomes extremely punishing to newcomers.

No-Death or Low-Death achievements on the other hand (also colloquially called “hardcore mode”, “perma-death” or “deathless” achievements by the community) are achievements that are – predictably – awarded for completing certain segments of a game without the player character dying (or otherwise reaching the equivalent of that fail state). Good examples of these achievements are LIMBO‘s “No Point in Dying” (complete the game with five or less deaths in one sitting); or Hard Reset‘s “Resistant” (complete any level other than the first without dying (Normal difficulty)”. Note that, in this case, merely reaching a fail state wouldn’t be considered a “death” unless it requires either restoring a previous world state or otherwise significantly invalidates a player’s progress (which is why we don’t see deathless achievements in games with instant player respawns).


With that out of the way, let’s return to the actual discussion that prompted this post – the conversation began with the mention of LIMBO’s aforementioned “No Point in Dying” achievement and quickly went through a variety of other games containing no-death achievements, eventually proceeding to include speedrunning achievements as well, all with one major theme: Are these achievements fun to accomplish?

The people in favor of these achievement types argued that their major appeal lies within the challenge they offer – a way to show mastery over the game, skillful play and intimate knowledge of the game’s inner workings which would then be rewarded with an achievement. Meanwhile, people arguing against their use would focus on one common thread – it made a previously-enjoyable game “not fun” or similarly feeling more like a chore or a bore to play through. Both sides seemed to raise valid points and it got me thinking – as I might have mentioned in previous blog posts, one of the indicators I use in defining a badly-implemented achievement is the “fun” factor, i.e. does this make an otherwise fun game lose its appeal? 

Going back on previous experiences, I realized something: speedrun and deathless achievements aren’t inherently boring or bad, but rather they are not a good fit for all game types. Consider a game like Braid – slow, ponderous at times, requiring a critical eye and some amount of lateral thinking in interpreting the designer’s puzzles in each level. In other words, a slow experience. Looking back on my time playing Braid, the only achievement I remember distinctly not liking was “Speed Run”, completing the entire game in under 45 minutes – mainly because it didn’t mesh well with the core design of the game (even if I hadn’t quite realized this at the time). In contrast, achievements in Mirror’s Edge I found to be a lot more enjoyable, even though a big part of the list is comprises of speedrunning achievements.

Braid’s slow pace runs contrary to any achievement design requiring speedrunning strategies.

Why was that? Because Mirror’s Edge, unlike Braid, is built to encourage and promote a “must go fast” mentality in the player – everything in that game, from the conservation of momentum in Faith’s movements to the level design which promotes vertical over lateral traversal, the entire game is designed to facilitate speed – something integral and expected in the process of speedrunning. Therefore, any achievements that do require completion of content under time constraints work with the game’s design and systems rather than against or despite it.

Similarly, no-death achievements are a lot less effective and enjoyable if the game in question relies on what is usually referred to trial-and-error design, in which the player is expected to have some form of prior knowledge of the game in order to complete it (most frequently through dying or retrying to learn the “proper” steps in traversing the game). A good example of this is the aforementioned LIMBO, where a few sections have nearly unavoidable deaths (not factoring the player’s luck in positioning correctly), which mean that a no-deaths (or in this case, five or fewer) achievement assumes the player has already gone through (and remembers) the game at least once in order to reliably be able to earn it.

This is a major issue with achievement implementation in general – a lot of examples can be made within games, in which achievement systems and  gameplay do not mesh well. Anything from having to kill a large amount of enemies in a game with limited enemy supply and/or long respawn timers, to collecting items that provide no actual gameplay enhancement, to performing in-game actions with no bearing or consequence during regular play (what I’d call meaningless actions, aside from unlocking an achievement) – all of these are generic examples that can be found in most any game with achievements or trophies.


As to why this keeps happening, I believe the reason is two-fold. Primarily, achievement systems are in a weird place at the moment – they are recent enough to not have been fully studied and explored, but established enough that they are one of the systems expected by players, i.e. a developer’s customers. Thus, from a developer’s point of view, games must include achievements (since their customers expect and even ask for them, and in all likelihood their competition already provides the same service) while still not having the proper “know-how” and experience to fully realize their potential as engagement tools.

Perhaps, one day all achievements will feel as good as this… sans the meatball-hair, of course.

At a lesser degree, I believe that the current fragmentation of the gaming community has contributed in the players themselves not having a clear idea of what they want out of an achievements system. This becomes apparent when considering that there are a multitude of different services and digital distribution platforms currently operating – Steam, Origin, GOG, uPlay, Playstation Network, Xbox Live, and so on and so forth, all of them vying for customer exclusivity and, more importantly for this topic, all of them coming with their own proprietary achievement/trophy systems. As a result, multiple communities – each with different goals and expectations – have formed around most of these platforms’ achievement systems which I suspect have made it extremely difficult to provide consistent and focused feedback towards designers and developers.

In writing this, I realize that a certain subset of the gaming community (or perhaps even the majority) will loudly proclaim that achievements are “useless” or “tacked-on” – in a sense, they are correct. However, I feel that this is more a problem of how they’re implemented, rather than an inherent flaw of the system itself. Achievements have the potential to engage and enrich an experience – a lot of recent advancements in gamification have shown that their real-life counterparts can and do offer tangible benefits when implemented correctly – as long as they are implemented in a thoughtful and precise manner, while complementing a game’s core design philosophy.

Unfortunately, aside from a few broad observations and recommendations, I don’t think this is a “problem” that can be easily solved. The fragmentation certainly cannot (although some communities have recently started branching out, with help of multi-platform tracker sites such as MetaGamerScore, which make it easier to track progress across various platforms), and the developer side is one of those things that needs to just run its course, so to speak. Certainly, as time passes and the achievement hunting community grows, the need for research into achievement systems and design will grow as well and, with it, a greater understanding into how to better engage and entertain a player. In the meantime, direct developer feedback is probably the best solution (where applicable) – telling developers how and why achievements work (or don’t) is more than likely the best approach to improving these systems for everyone.


As an afterword, I’d like to mention that I am by no means an expert in this field. Most, if not all of my experience is based on personal engagement in the subject and thus might be skewed or insufficient. Even so, I feel that it provides at minimum a good starting point for discussion, much like the Discord channel debate that sparked this article in the first place – perhaps, with a large enough pool of differing opinions, achievement implementation can reach its full potential and truly enrich a game’s experience.

Do you have any examples of properly-implemented achievements? Achievement design that clashes with the gameplay? Drop a comment below!

Fun With Friends – Asymmetrical Design (We Were Here)

In Fun With Friends, we’ll be taking a look at various co-op experiences, from action-packed sidescrolling shoot-em-ups to calmer, more methodical puzzle-solving games. This week, let’s have a look at how asymmetrical design improves upon a co-op experience with help and examples from “recent” F2P co-op puzzle game We Were Here.

Playing co-op games has always been one of my favorite multiplayer activities ever since my formative years, from Contra and Golden Axe‘s side-scrolling mayhem action to more methodical, slow burners such as Lost Vikings and (once co-op moved on from the realm of the side-scroller to other genres) several Infinity Engine games like Baldur’s Gate or Icewind Dale. For me, it was always much more than just the thrill of playing with other people – it was a sense of camaraderie, or perhaps knowing  that someone else just experienced the game in the same way as I just had, a joint sense of accomplishment.

Needless to say that, to this day, I always savor my co-op sessions – doubly so since nowadays tight schedules and real-life obligations limit said sessions more than ever.

The second puzzle in the game, from the librarian’s perspective…

Before diving into asymmetrical co-op design, let’s set a baseline for a what constitutes a co-op experience. As with most gaming-related terms (which have always been a bit nebulous and subjective) the “co-op” tag can be stretched to fit a lot of diverse examples. However, for the purpose of this discussion I’m considering a game as having co-op if it fulfills the following:

  1. The co-op portion of the game is played with two or more players (obviously)
  2. These players need to work within the game’s intended design to accomplish objectives, which in turn move the game forward (co-op must be implemented by design explicitly – as an example of incidental co-op, consider a PVP server in WoW where players of opposing factions help each other out instead of attacking, thus an unintended by-product of the players’ choosing).
  3. For this post, I’m also not considering games such as Dead By Daylight, since those are combinations of co-op (the survivor team needs to work together to escape) and player-versus-player (since as a team, they’re actively working against the killer player) and thus, while  excellent examples of asymmetrical design, are beyond the scope of this post.

Further to the above, we’ll also be looking specifically at asymmetrical co-op design – while asymmetry in games takes many forms, from map design to team balance and a multitude of other variables, we’ll be looking specifically at the two-player puzzle variant, which in essence works by limiting each player’s access to specific and exclusive sets of information and interactions, then making both sets necessary for completing the game.

With the above in mind, let’s have a look at a game I recently had the pleasure of going through – We Were Here, the free-to-play first entry of the titular series, with two games currently released and a third one slated for a 2019 release (We Were Here Too and We Were Here Together, respectively). 

In We Were Here, two players take the role of a pair of explorers taking refuge in an ominous castle during a snowstorm. Separated upon entry, players are tasked with navigating the castle’s various traps and puzzles, armed with only their wits and a walkie-talkie tuned into their companion’s frequency. From there, both players must communicate with one another, providing a back-and-forth of clues, questions and panicked exclamations while they try to guide one another to the exit.

…and the explorer’s side as well.

Upon creating a session, each player is assigned one of the two available  roles – explorer or librarian. These are more than fancy titles, though, as they determine which part of the castle each player will start in and are unique (meaning that you can’t have two explorers or librarians in the same session). As the librarian, the game is mostly limited to a single room, filled with a multitude of interactive props such as maps, books and valves, while the explorer has access to more extensive levels, with a large variety of indoors and outdoors locales, including mazes, gardens and crypts.

This is where the “asymmetrical” part of the design really kicks in – for the majority of the game, the librarian’s role is to rummage their limited surroundings for clues to feed to the explorer, who is doing the bulk of the legwork. As an example, in one of the early puzzles the explorer is tasked with navigating a maze of rooms and passages while finding a series of color-coded switches that toggle gate sets in said maze, of which the librarian has a map of. Thus, the librarian takes the role of navigator, trying to direct the explorer (always via walkie-talkie) towards the correct sequence of switches, while the explorer attempts to follow the instructions and provide accurate feedback.

What I find most interesting in this approach to asymmetry is the way the developers have given the game a sense of urgency, mainly by limiting player communication to the walkie-talkie system (essentially VOIP via Steam’s API) – a lot of the puzzles in We Were Here are built around the players’ ability to quickly and accurately provide information to one another. A good example of this is a flooding room encountered early in the explorer’s route – the librarian must be quickly provided with the correct color combination of valves to shut off, in order to halt the water flow to the explorer’s side. With just voice communication, this becomes inherently more stressful and (since it’s done correctly, i.e. a generous time limit is given for new players to realize what to do) incredibly fun, in an edge-of-your-seat kind of way.

While asymmetrical design isn’t a new thing in gaming (with games such as Unreal Tournament experimenting with asymmetrical modes like Assault as early as 1999 or games with character stats eventually evolving into the class-based MP FPS sub-genre, Team Fortress being a good example), it is interesting to note that the puzzle co-op variant is relatively new in mainstream appeal – in fact, aside from We Were Here and its sequel(s), I can only thing of one more example in this genre, Keep Talking And Nobody Explodes which, in the same vein has one player defusing elaborate bomb setups while the other guides them through the process by providing specific info from a bomb-disposal manual.

So, what makes a goo asymmetrical co-op puzzle game? Using We Were Here as an example (as I’d consider it an excellent, if slightly too short game) we can extract a few good examples:

The game’s visual design is interesting, but not to the point of distracting from the puzzle design.
  1. Communication between players must be facilitated in a precise, functional manner. In our sessions, we found this to be of the utmost importance, as the explorer would often need to convey concise information to the librarian as they would often be in immediate danger of dying (and would thus need info on how to escape fast.)
  2. Puzzle design must be simple enough to describe over the communication channel, yet complex enough to feel like an accomplishment once the puzzle is solved. In We Were Here, this is mostly achieved by using modular puzzle design, where each puzzle is made up of smaller individual segments that are simple in design (and thus easy to communicate to the other player). In doing so, the developers allow players to easily and precisely describe each element to their companion (see point #1), while also building said elements into a larger, more complex (and therefore more satisfying) puzzle.
  3. If possible, recycle as few puzzle assets as possible and vary segment design. A lot of the puzzles in We Were Here feel “fresh”, mainly because the developers take enough care to provide variety in their design. While the puzzles are few in number (around five or so “main” puzzle rooms to get through), there are significant changes in what each puzzle’s solution calls on (be it spatial awareness, lateral thinking, logic, riddle-solving, and so on) which helps each room feel unique and interesting to work through.
  4. Allow for moments of tension, as well as moments of calm – use the two to keep the pacing interesting and variable. We Were Here performs admirably in this, with pacing alternating between tense, life-or-death moments and calm, logical ones. I feel that, had it leaned towards either one of the two more heavily, it would have suffered by either becoming too tense (and taxing to play through) or too slow (and boring or annoying to experience).
  5. Make sure that each player’s role is sufficiently different to the other’s. Again, the game is quite good at conveying this from the get-go, as it’s made very clear by the level design of the initial rooms that each player’s role is distinctly different – the explorer does most of the legwork and faces most of the danger, while the librarian handles the information-gathering and guidance aspects.

As an overall experience, We Were Here is interesting and highly enjoyable – perhaps a bit shorter than it should be (though I suspect this is intentional, as this first game is free to play and probably intended as a “demo” or introduction to the series, meant to draw players in) but still quite substantial and efficient in how it spends the players’ time.  If nothing else, it certainly made me and my co-op partner interested in the series as a whole.

For the record, a full playthrough (in which each player experiences both sides of the team) takes around 2 to 3 hours – I find this to be an excellent length of time for what the game sets out to do, being long enough to provide ample opportunity for observation but short enough to allow both players to fully experience it in a single session.

Have you played any co-op games recently? Any good examples of asymmetrical design you’d like to see discussed in this blog or with other readers? Drop us a line in the comments section!

A Casual Glance – Backtracking in Gaming

In A Casual Glance we’ll be having a look at various aspects of game design from the perspective of a casual observer (i.e. no hands-on experience in the games industry or professionally working on covering them, just as a player experiencing them) – this week we’ll be talking about how games implement backtracking with a few examples of how to best incorporate it and/or work around it.

For anyone that has been in gaming for any significant amount of time, the following scenario should be familiar: you have reached the end of an area (often a dungeon or military base or similar self-contained environment) and it is finally time to complete your objective – activate the self-destruct sequence, collect the Thing of Ultimate Power®, kill that pesky boss that’s been terrorizing the village… it doesn’t quite matter what the goal du jour is, just that you’re about to complete it. Once you do, a little popup appears – “Quest Updated: Return to town”.

And this is what backtracking usually boils down to.

Put simply, backtracking is what happens when a game asks the player to traverse previously-explored territory to return to its entrance point – often as soon as they have reached the other end. Trekking back to those quest-givers in World of Warcraft’s Barrens Crossroads to let them know you’ve killed 10 kobolds? That’s backtracking. Escaping the Ceres Space Colony after the self-destruct sequence is initiated in Super Metroid? Also backtracking. All that business with the shape memory alloy cards in Metal Gear Solid? Backtracking and more backtracking (and a very special example of what I call “Kojima Design”, but I digress).

It’s important to note that backtracking is a term (almost) exclusive to linear design (since open-world/non-linear content is by definition designed to allow for multiple options in traversing it) – so while the player might, for example, have to pass by the same settlement in Just Cause 2‘s Panau Island multiple times, the game flow is not specifically designed to force or encourage that and thus it would not be considered backtracking.

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One of my most fondly-remembered games of its time, and one where backtracking is readily apparent.

Backtracking is a useful design in a some cases: implemented correctly, it gives a sense of structure and verisimilitude (since it “makes sense” that, for example, buildings have the same opening act as both entrance and exit in most cases) while it also doubles down as a time-saver in regards to content (since it effectively doubles any given game real estate in size by having the player traverse it twice). Unfortunately, this is also where care must be taken, as any failure in masking its existence often leads to player fatigue and, in extreme cases, boredom.

I recently replayed Grim Fandango in its most recent, remastered iteration – it being one of my favorite games of its day, I had played it enough times in the past to remember all of the steps needed to solve the majority of puzzles in the game. This in turn led to a mostly linear experience – I was already familiar with what needed to be done to progress at any given point and thus could effectively avoid the illusion of open-ended design that first-time players would experience.

Unsurprisingly, when played as a linear experience, it quickly becomes apparent just how much Grim Fandango’s design relies on backtracking to increase the game’s run time. Before we proceed, I should clarify that I don’t consider backtracking to be inherently bad or even implemented solely as a padding mechanism – as stated, it’s a great way to keep up the illusion of a more believable game world and I’m sure the team behind Grim Fandango intended it as such, at least partially (adventure games of that era were notoriously short on actual content, so it’s easy to assume that padding was in part a developer goal).

That being said, Grim Fandango is a very good example of backtracking overload. Playing it with a clear idea of where I was headed and what I needed to do, I would still be forced to traverse the same scenes three or more times over the course of puzzles. An early example of this (spoilers, beware) can be seen in Year 2: Rubacava, where one of the main objectives is to gain the Sea Bee “Official” tools for Glottis, which in turn allows you to board the last ship out of town. This involves inciting the Sea Bees to riot, which in turn requires getting their leader out of jail, which ultimately involves a city-wide hunt for a missing photograph.

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Visual aid for the below mental exercise.

Sound straightforward? In theory, it is – distilled to its simplest, it’s a case of going from Point A to Point B to Point C, or rather, get clue 1 > get clue 2 > locate photograph > blackmail lawyer > get Sea Bee leader released > get tools from now-on-strike Sea Bees. The problem is that, due to how these objectives have been placed, a lot of back-and-forth is involved. In this example, you need to:

  1. Talk to Nick, the lawyer, until you can distract him and steal his cigar case. (VIP Lounge)
  2. Go to Carla and have the cigar case blown open to get the key to the lighthouse. (Security Checkpoint)
  3. Head to the Lighthouse and witness Lola’s death, get clue #1 – a tile. (Lighthouse)
  4. Head to Calavera Cafe and get the coat with the tile you found at the Lighthouse. (Calavera Cafe)
  5. Using the coat to gain clue #2 – a tattoo catalog design, head to the tattoo parlor (and solve a small puzzle) to check the specific design (Tattoo Parlor).
  6. Head to the Cat Tracks, solve a puzzle using clues obtained during the quest and produce a fake ticket stub, which can then be traded for an incriminating picture of Nick. (Cat Tracks)
  7. Head back to Nick, who agrees to help you free Terry, the Sea Bee leader, in return for the picture. (VIP Lounge)

Using the chart above, try following these steps and you’ll quickly notice that a lot of the time, due to how areas are linked, you’ll be traversing the same areas over and over and over again.

The problem is that, aside from becoming annoying busywork for older players, this also causes disorientation (in Grim Fandango’s case, also partially due to the badly-implemented combination of “tank” controls and fixed camera angles, although the remaster at least included a more traditional mouse control scheme) and in a few cases destroys any pacing the game had – after all, it doesn’t really feel like you’re racing against time when you are forced to go through the same crossroads five times in a row, right?

One of the ways this could’ve been fixed was dynamic actor placement, a fancy term for teleporting the protagonist closer to their objective once certain conditions are met (usually via cutscene or even just a plain fade to black). Amusingly, Grim Fandango already does this in certain places – the above example of a puzzle ends with game protagonist Manny Calavera and lawyer Nick being spawned outside the police station where Terry’s being kept, through a cutscene – which reinforces the belief that the rest of the backtrack-heavy sequences were indeed left in as a means of increasing gametime artificially.

So, how can a game “properly” implement backtracking, as I mentioned at the start of this post? Let’s have a look at some examples:

Dark Souls: Prepare to… unlock a shortcut?

The Souls series is a very good first example of how backtracking can be a positive inclusion if accounted for during initial design. From Software’s breakout meta-series has always relied on retreading old ground, whether it is a result of player deaths or general level layout. As far as I can see, this works for one simple reason: the level design takes the backtracking aspect into consideration on a very fundamental level.

Put simply, the levels are built from the ground up to allow for interesting traversal with multiple options even if the path itself is somewhat linear. In addition, the combat system itself accounts for this, offering a variety of options and encounters to keep things interesting over multiple runs through the same area. Finally, special care has been taken with shortcuts, special paths that can be unlocked once the player has progressed far enough into an area and which, once activated, provide an easy way to skip content that the player has already mastered (by virtue of managing to reach the shortcut in the first place).

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Of course, there are several reward mechanics other than shortcuts in Dark Souls…

The interesting thing here is that, as the level design and combat systems support the design choice to include backtracking, so does it in turn support the risk vs. reward mechanics – reaching one of the aforementioned shortcuts is designed to feel immensely rewarding, as they often provide immediate access to safe areas such as bonfires or vendor shops and act as a sort of impromptu checkpoint from where progress can be regained in the event of death.

But then, not all games are (or should be) built around the idea of dying all the time, so how would a more “traditional” experience handle backtracking? Enter… Skyrim.

Dungeons and Dragonborn

At the start of this post, I noted that backtracking is a design aspect that is mostly, if not exclusively, found in linear games, so how can Skyrim, one of the poster children for open-world design, possibly have any? Easily, as it turns out – while non-linearity forms the majority of Skyrim’s design, there is one exception: dungeons.

Dungeons in Skyrim (especially optional ones) are primarily linear affairs – one entrance/exit, a long trek from start to finish with some traps/monsters/treasure to interact with, an objective at the very end – and due to their level design, should require a large amount of backtracking to exit once fully cleared. Whether it’s a nefarious vampire lord hiding out in the deepest part of his lair, a Dragon Wall built at the very far end of a temple or a Dwemer ruin hidden at the bottom of a sprawling cave system, you should invariably be heading through it all in the opposite direction once you’ve completed them.

With a reported 340+ locations to discover and explore in Skyrim’s mountainous landscape, it seem like backtracking would become a big problem and yet it doesn’t – mostly because, once again, special care is taken to properly incorporate and even take advantage of it in level design.

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Quite amusing how an open-world game does linear content (and manages backtracking) better than many of its peers.

In this case, the game’s developers have made sure to include a “return path” to the majority of the game’s non-story dungeons – in essence, an extra bit of the level which bridges the end-point to the entrance and, more importantly, is only accessible once the player has reached the end of the dungeon. A barely-hidden path behind a movable wall; a door that can only be unlocked from the endpoint of the dungeon; a jump-off point which deposits you in the lake at the base base of a waterfall once you’re done climbing – no matter how, there’s almost always a way to quickly return to the entrance of a dungeon (and by proxy, the overworld and the rest of your sandbox adventures).

As with the Dark Souls example, Skyrim’s solution to backtracking allows it to extend the experience but counteracts the inherent annoyance and eliminates the tedium associated with it, as these return paths are previously-unexplored content that might also contain rewards of their own, as well as feeling a lot more natural than a forced teleport cutscene. An elegant solution overall, though in this case it comes at the cost of diminishing the verisimilitude of the world – after all, after finding the 20th or so return path you’re starting to wonder just how uncannily lucky the Dragonborn seems to be, if they’re discovering so many shortcuts everywhere they explore.

Even so, I find this to be an acceptable sacrifice – perhaps a more elegant solution can be reached in a more linear or less content-heavy game, but at least this method is a good starting point and an excellent example for future games.

Have you ever played any games that require excessive backtracking? Got any examples of your favorite games handling it in an interesting way? Share below in the comments!

 

Idle Thoughts – Fun With Remakes

Up until a few months ago, I’ve never really been a fan of podcasts for various reasons (mostly a lack of investment and interest in most “traditional” topics covered). Lately, though, I’ve taken to listening to the Retronauts one – headed by Jeremy Parish and Bob Mackey and featuring a variety of co-hosts in each episode, it’s billed as an “exploration of the history of video games” (with a specific focus on retro gaming). Needless to say, it’s a series I’d recommend wholeheartedly.

One of their most recent episodes revolved around a discussion on remastered/rebooted/remade games – including some very handy definitions of each – and it got me thinking. Looking back at the last six or so months, I realized that a lot of what I’ve been playing comes under one of these three categories – surprisingly in some cases, it’s also games that I never got to experience during their prime (i.e. the remake or remaster would be my very first direct contact with said game).

With that being said, let’s have a look at some examples, specifically of remakes, that I’ve played recently, either from a newcomer or an old timer’s perspective (depending on whether I’ve played a particular game’s previous iterations).

Striking Gold – Persona 4: The Golden

One of my biggest regrets in gaming is never having owned a Playstation 2 – partly due to low availability of units locally as well as a lack of funds at the time, I somehow managed to miss one of the biggest (and most influential) video game libraries of its time, much to my dismay. Although I eventually got an XBox and a Gamecube (the former second-hand and the latter at a severely discounted price) and was thus covered where multiplatform games were concerned, a PS2 and its huge list of exclusives would elude me for years.

That is, until the present culture of remakes/remasters emerged.

Among the many titles I had missed, one of my most wanted was the latter incarnations of the Persona series – Persona 3 and 4. Widely considered as some of the top JRPG’s of their time, mainly due to the unique blend of traditional JRPG systems and combat with a school life simulator, these two games were high on my list of “must-haves” – and with good reason.

Persona 3 initially received a remake for the PSP, titled Persona 3: Portable – a cut-down version of the original 2007 release (rather than the improved FES version from 2008) that removed exploration of the non-dungeon parts due to the limitations of the PSP, but with additional options, such as an option to play as a female protagonist and more direct combat control (where the original only allowed direct control of the protagonist in combat, where allies were AI-driven).

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Image courtesy of Playstation Store US.

This set the stage for Persona 4: The Golden, which released for the PSVita in 2013, this time a fully realized and improved upon version of the original 2009 release. Needless to say, I was very excited about P4G – to the point that it was the reason I got a PSVita in the first place (and that decision was totally worth it, by the way).

While I’m no newcomer to the series, having played the first three games in various PSN re-releases during the PS3/PSP’s lifetime, I was definitely feeling like one for P4G – the first three games (Persona, Persona 2: Innocent Sin, Persona 2: Eternal Punishment) are quite different in terms of structure, systems and focus, taking on a more traditional JRPG form (albeit still within the series’ distinct “contemporary Japanese teen” theme), while from Persona 3 onwards we begin to see the now-familiar addition of everyday life simulation elements being added and slowly refined.

This made Persona 4: The Golden a very different experience for me. While I can’t really comment or compare the differences between versions (not having played the original PS2 title), I can wholeheartedly say that P4G was one of my standout JRPG experiences of the last few years – one that was only edged out by the even more amazing Persona 5 (which built and iterated on its predecessor’s already-refined formula). From the lovable cast of high school misfits to the lighthearted tone (which admittedly sometimes dives a bit deeper into darker places) to the excellent soundtrack, the deep and engaging combat and persona systems, the amazing voice acting (something that a lot of JRPG localizations often struggle with) – P4G was an exemplary experience in almost every aspect.

In Persona 4, as is typical of the series post-Persona 3, you take the role of a high-school student recently transferred to an unfamiliar town – Inaba, a small rural Japanese town, in this game’s case – where you are given one in-game year in order to resolve the game’s conflict. During the first couple of  weeks, a series of bizarre murders forces you to recruit your fellow students into a ragtag bunch dubbed the Investigation Team, with the goal of solving the mystery behind these crimes.

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Image courtesy of Playstation Store US.

While I could go on for several paragraphs extolling P4G’s virtues (and there are a lot of those), in the interest of brevity (and covering other games as well) I’ll just limit myself to this: while most of the game’s design ranges from great to stellar, special mention must be given to the character development and design. It’s a rare game that makes me feel like I’m invested in (and maybe bonded with) any characters, and an even rarer one that does so with the entire cast. Indeed, around 90 hours of playtime later, I can easily name most, if not all, of the game’s main cast, as well as several of the supporting cast (dubbed Social Links), as well as their backstories, character traits, speech patterns and mannerisms and so on and so forth.

Persona 4 Golden is an incredible accomplishment, a must-play JRPG that, going by fan reactions, managed to improve upon an already excellent base – with many additions, improvements and streamlined content, an excellent example of a remake done right.

On the very flip-side of Persona 4: Golden, let’s have a look at a game I’ve played the original release but had never managed to experience the remake of, until modern re-releases enabled me to do thus…

Travels in Time – Journeyman Project: Pegasus Prime

The Journeyman Project (subtitled Turbo, after several performance-enhancing fixes were made) is a first-person point-n-click adventure game in the vein of Myst, but with a decidedly more sci-fi feel to it. First released in 1994 (with original, non-Turbo version launching a year prior), it was one of the first 3D games I ever played – even if said 3D consisted primarily of pre-rendered objects and backgrounds with chroma-keyed actors overlaid – and one I immediately fell in love with.

I’ve always attributed my wide love of gaming genres to my initial experiences – in close succession, I had been exposed at a very young age to the faster-paced platform action of Super Mario Land (on a friend’s Gameboy before getting one of my own), as well as the more logic-oriented slow pace of text adventures such as Zork and Enchanter (well past their prime but part of the very small pool of available games for a 486 running DOS). In Journeyman Project Turbo, I probably found for the first time a meeting of the two worlds, with the urgency of an action game conveyed by the game’s story, fused expertly with the slow, methodical mechanics of an adventure game – which is presumably why I was so taken in by it.

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Hints, a major addition to Pegasus Prime and one that is essential in introducing the game to new audiences.

You take the role of Gage Blackwood and it’s the near future – a future where time travel is not only available but also heavily regulated. Gage is part of the TSA, the Temporal Security Annex, a government organization tasked with policing time itself… until everything goes wrong. Narrowly managing to escape temporal catastrophe, Gage must now locate where (and more importantly, when) it all went wrong, then travel back in time in order to change the past and save the future.

As far as game mechanics go, Journeyman Project is a more or less standard adventure game – solve puzzles and collect items to access new areas, repeat until end of game. As with many of its time, where it shines is in atmosphere, presentation and story beats. The time-travel angle is explored in sufficient depth – not too jargon-laden, but not glossed over either – and the whole “choose which order to play the levels/locations in” approach was unique for adventure games at the time (even if in actuality it’s a fairly linear game) and further worked to reinforce the temporal themes.

As mentioned before, I had only played the original (Turbo) release back when I was younger – the 1997 remake was a Mac-exclusive title up until a few years ago, where it made a surprising appearance on PC’s via GOG and Steam – so going into Pegasus Prime was quite the interesting experience.

The first thing that drew my attention was the redesigned UI. While both the Turbo and Pegasus Prime versions have comparatively tiny viewports from which players can see the world, PP’s one is decidedly less intrusive, enlarged and higher resolution. Adding to that a much more smoothly animated inventory/chip system meant that the game as a whole felt smoother and slicker than I had remembered.

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Hard to believe but the view-port was even smaller in the original release.

Additionally, with Pegasus Prime, the developers would go on and re-film actors and locations, giving the visuals a much-needed upgrade with protagonist Gage Blackwood in particular now having a fully-animated (filmed) presence in-game, as opposed to static portrait photos in the original. Additionally, where in the original Gage was pretty much the only person to be seen physically in the world, Pegasus Prime adds a couple new actors to the mix, one of which ties to later games in the series – which made a small nod to continuity possible and got a chuckle out of series fans such as myself.

The improvements didn’t stop there, though. Several systems were revamped, with movement in particular being smoother and feeling more animated – no doubt thanks to higher resolution imagery used – while the score system was now more descriptive and comprehensive (as with many adventure games of the time, there is a score system – see further examples in any Sierra game of that time, where a completed game did not necessarily award full points unless optional actions and interactions were found).

Finally, the biggest change was the expansion and, in some cases, total overhaul of certain areas in the game – mostly quality-of-life improvements such as shortcuts being added and areas being rendered with slightly different layouts to better indicate interactions, but also changes in some puzzles to eliminate a kind of “leap in logic” style of gameplay that was sadly prevalent in adventure games of the time (which is not to say that Journeyman Project is totally free of those puzzles, but it fares a lot better than most of its contemporaries).

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Note the score system, now categorized by area and bonus type (something not present in the original release).

While the game (in both incarnations) has aged poorly – understandably so, since Turbo came out in ’93 and Pegasus Prime in ’97 – I’d still hold it as one of the best examples of how to remake a game: adding functionality, accenting strengths and correcting weaknesses in the design, with the aim of bringing the product up to spec for a more modern audience and more capable hardware. Indeed, where most other games would try to reinvent the wheel, so to speak, Journeyman Project took the much better route of refining what was already there – thus making it a memorable experience and one of the more refined first-person adventure games of its time that I’ve ever played.

In Conclusion…

Looking back at this article, I haven’t even began to scratch the surface of  all my favorite remakes and when also considering remasters and reboots, the topic seems to stretch infinitely – between ensemble collections like Kingdom Hearts, former genre juggernauts such as Baldur’s Gate and oddball remakes like Chronicles of Riddick, there is just so much more to discuss. Perhaps, in time, we’ll take another look…

Do you enjoy remakes and remasters? Ever played one? Have a story to share about your most or least favorite remakes of old classics? Perhaps you hate the entire idea of them and want to talk about it? Drop a line in the comments and let me know!

In The Spotlight – The Pacing of Persona 5

Ever played a game where a particular aspect drew your attention? Some specific minutiae you felt like talking about, to the exclusion of all else? In The Spotlight aims to discuss just that! This week, we’ll be checking out how the pacing of 2017’s JRPG smash hit, Persona 5, works.

In case you’ve never experienced a Persona game, here’s a brief breakdown: Persona 5 is the latest in the long-standing Persona series of JRPGs (naturally), best known for their use of urban contemporary settings (as opposed to the genre “defaults” of fantasy or sci-fi), with underlying themes based in Jungian psychology, as well as a focus on character-driven narrative.

In addition, main series games from Persona 3 onward have their game structured upon two main elements – dungeon delving (where the game follows the more traditional JRPG recipe of turn-based combat, stat-building and exploration) and in-between sections centered on the protagonist’s daily life (which borrows heavily from the visual novel genre and is where most of the dialogue and character development takes place).

These two elements are compounded by a calendar mechanic; the story takes place over the course of a single year, with each event or dungeon visit expending a certain amount of time. In Persona 5, this calendar is further broken down into individual days, which are usually split into three segments – morning (with scripted sequences where the protagonist attends school) and afternoons/ evenings (where the player gets to choose to spend either by visiting dungeons or focusing on social life aspect of the game).

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The calendar system, stylish as any other part of Persona 5.

With this baseline established, let me get on with the actual topic of the post: in my opinion, Persona 5 has some of the best pacing I’ve seen in a game lately. Over the course of 87 hours (which, with my current work schedule took around 3 months), the game rarely felt like it was struggling or rushing with its story and event flow; a major accomplishment considering how much there is to do and see (currently, gameplay length aggregate site HowLongToBeat clocks the 100% completion rate to around 160 hours – that’s a lot of content).

I believe there’s two reasons the pacing works so well.

First, the contrast created between the high-action, often frenetic combat in the dungeon segments and the mellow, almost relaxing day-to-day encounters with the protagonist’s friends and social circle (appropriately for a game themed around heists, each one of these is called a Confidant) ensures that game’s pace is kept in check, with quiet moments used to great effect in building up to the eventual action segments and those in turn allowing the player to appreciate the lulls in activity all the better (this, of course, is also aided in part by the game’s excellent soundtrack, a mixture of acid jazz and J-Pop that pack a serious aural punch).

Second, and as I’d argue more important, is the amount of agency  Persona 5 gives the player in moderating their own pace throughout the game. Utilizing the aforementioned calendar system the game is structured upon, players are left to decide their own timetable for each day – be it spending time with Confidants, exploring dungeons to strengthen their party, partaking in social activities such as fishing or working a part-time shift at the florist’s, the game lets them experience its content at their own pace (and yes, there are some time limitations, especially during unskippable events or deadlines for completing each story dungeon, but those are few and lenient enough to not cause particular annoyance).

 

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Combat is only half of the game.

This is especially noticeable for players with less free time to devote to a game – evident in my case, where I could only afford maybe half an hour per session, two or three times a week plus one or two hour-long ones during the weekend – as it allows them to tailor their experience to their needs.

Second, and as I’d argue more important, is the amount of agency  Persona 5 gives the player in moderating their own pace throughout the game. Utilizing the aforementioned calendar system the game is structured upon, players are left to decide their own timetable for each day – be it spending time with Confidants, exploring dungeons to strengthen their party, partaking in social activities such as fishing or working a part-time shift at the florist’s, the game lets them experience its content at their own pace (and yes, there are some time limitations, especially during unskippable events or deadlines for completing each story dungeon, but those are few and lenient enough to not cause particular annoyance).

This is especially noticeable for players with less free time to devote to a game – evident in my case, where I could only afford maybe half an hour per session, two or three times a week plus one or two hour-long ones during the weekend – as it allows them to tailor their experience to their needs.

Only have half an hour to spare before calling it a night? You can go explore the city for a while, maybe get to know your allies a bit better or work a shift or two at the local grocery to build up your cash reserves. Got an afternoon free for gaming? Might as well delve into that dungeon, grab some new gear and experiment with the game’s fusion system (a complex function where you can combine your summoned allies – Personae – into more powerful forms).

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Social interactions are the other half.

From my own experience with the game, however much time you can spare, there’s always something meaningful to do or see in Persona 5’s version of Tokyo.

So what is the key takeaway from all this? I believe it’s a high rate of modularity in the game’s writing and structuring. This is evident in the way that Confidants, activities and main story elements work so well together, but without depending on one another to a great degree – letting the player choose their own actions in the game without feeling like they’re missing out on part of the experience or being punished for not planning out their time efficiently enough.

Ultimately, I think there’s a lesson to take away from Persona 5 – with a bit of planning, there are ways to let the player decide the game’s pace, allowing them to enjoy the experience on their own terms by utilizing a modular approach during the design phase. If I had to make an assumption, I’d say that while it would increase pre-production time (in order to design the systems needed for such functionality), it should conversely save time during testing (i.e. tuning and tweaking the experience based on player feedback, as this seems to be a self-correcting system, provided it was planned correctly).

Addendum: If you’re interested in a more in-depth explanation on pacing in games, I would recommend this Extra Credits video, titled “Pacing – How Games Keep Things Exciting” (and in general, if you’re interested in seeing what makes games “tick”, Extra Credits is a very good channel to subscribe to).

What are your experiences with pacing in games? Got any interesting examples to share from favorites? Tales of pacing done badly? Share them in the comments section below!

Arguing The Point – The Use of Achievements

In Arguing the Point, I’ll be taking a look at interesting debates regarding gaming, discussing my personal take on the subject at hand. This week, achievements and the usefulness (or lack) thereof.

In recent years, achievements have been enjoying a steady increase in popularity; from big-budget triple-A productions to one-man indie passion projects, new game releases with at least some achievement functionality have become the norm.

Naturally, this increase in implementation has also resulted in the appearance in a fairly new category of player, which I’d call the “achievement hunter” – these are players that have made a meta-game out of achievement completion, often dedicating hours upon hours into getting every single achievement a game has to offer (and, in certain cases, competing against others in the sheer amount of games completed thus).

This blog post topic was partially inspired by a Twitter exchange between Dave Gilbert (founder of Wadjet Eye Games, which have been steadily publishing amazing point-and-click adventure games since 2006 or so) and Richard Cobbett, freelance journalist/writer/game designer (whose most recent work is featured in the procedurally-generated choose-your-own-adventure sci-fi game The Long Journey Home by Daedalic Studios West and who has also done extensive work for various gaming publications such as PC Gamer, RPS, Eurogamer and so on), seen below:

Now, while I’m personally a big fan of achievements – or at least, I used to be, before family and work obligations cut my free time a lot shorter – I can see where comments like these come from. Achievements, at a first glance, are mostly extraneous in nature; usually dependent on client software (such as Steamworks or PSN) and often added as an afterthought or with the intention of padding out a game’s length by having arbitrary requirements (such as the ever-present “Kill X Enemies” achievements).

However, I’d contest that this is mostly a symptom of bad design on the developer’s part, rather than an inherent flaw of these systems. In fact, I would go even further and argue that achievements are at least as valid a focus for players as graphics, story or gameplay elements are. Here’s why:

I’ve mentioned in a previous blog post that, when done correctly, achievements can provide additional entertainment and value to a game. This added value might come from giving the player hints as to alternate outcomes to in-game events, acknowledging the player’s ingenuity, adding developer commentary to in-game actions and so on – there’s a lot to be gained with achievements, if implemented properly.

I believe that achievements should be seen and judged as features of a game, same as with any other gameplay mechanic, rather than the tacked-on annoyance that a certain part of the gaming crowd currently views them as.

Further, aside from the “added value” argument, there is also the question of implementation cost – arguably, even with the minimum of time taken to design, implement and maintain achievement systems, I’d argue that there is some effort required, which in turn means extra costs incurred during development (or rarely, during the post-launch update cycle).

Regardless of the length of time taken, there will be the need for a programmer to code the achievement triggers, an artist to create their icons, a writer to write, edit, proofread their names and descriptions (sometimes the same person for all three disciplines) – at the end of the day, any developer that makes use of achievements in any extent will have to allocate someone’s time (and consequently spend money) to make the dang things work.

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In-game achievement tracker from the excellent Gemini Rue.

Therefore, if achievements do impact development through their time/money costs and provide at least some value (however small), in the same way that story, graphics or gameplay features do, why not judge them in a similar way? Why not at least consider that some players will and do value a game’s achievements more than other, more traditional elements?

I believe that the “achievement hunter” tag should carry at least as much weight as other player categories; eventually, with more and more developers learning how to properly design and implement them, I would argue that they can become a major enough aspect of games to be included in the reductionist view of “graphics vs. story vs. gameplay”.

Of course, not all features are created equal; achievement systems are, by design, an extraneous, optional feature (as they depend on the existence of other features to fulfill their intended function), but as argued above, there is untapped potential here; I feel that, with time, these systems can mature into a feature that can complement and perhaps augment a game’s overall user experience.

What are your thoughts on achievements? Do you aim for 100% completion in games, or do you view them as unnecessary additions? Give us your thoughts in the comments section below!

 

 

Evolving a Genre – Maniac Mansion Retrospective

As an adventure game fan, I have many fond memories of Maniac Mansion; although I was late to the party (having played it in the mid-90’s as part of a Maniac Mansion/ Day of the Tentacle combo purchase), it still held up impressively well against its successors – in part because of the unique horror/comedy setting, as well as  the (for the time) novel idea of character selection – the player controlling protagonist Dave and having the choice of two sidekicks out of a possible six.

Maniac Mansion’s a prime example
of comedy tinged with horror elements.
The character selection was more than cosmetic though; Maniac Mansion’s story and puzzles changed, depending on the player’s choice of sidekicks – as each character has a specific ability to be used in puzzle-solving (such as Bernard, who can repair various electronic devices). This offered a hitherto-unheard of degree of replayability; the game offered a grand total of five endings, depending on which of the characters were chosen (as well as various other in-game events, such as whether any characters died).
The sequel, Day of the Tentacle added
time travel to the mix.
Interface-wise, Maniac Mansion pioneered a new form of player interaction; the now-famous SCUMM engine allowed players to use pre-determined actions (verbs) such as Pick Up, Talk To and Open – this came at a time when adventure games mainly (if not exclusively) relied on text parsers as a means of interaction and thus pushed the genre into a more user-friendly direction. It’s interesting to note that the SCUMM engine (acronym for Script Creation Utility for Maniac Mansion) went on to power most of the Lucasfilm-era games, with such hits as Secret of Monkey Island, Sam & Max Hit the Road and The Dig.
Monkey Island 2 – might not have been
as successful without the SCUMM engine.
The game’s story is based on the 80’s-era horror clichés; a group of teenagers must enter the mansion of mad scientist Dr. Fred, in order to rescue their friend – the game itself plays upon these stereotypes with what would eventually evolve into the staple humour of the Lucasfilm adventure library, offering a surprisingly well-made comedy/horror fusion that fits well with the setting itself. 
Sam & Max: Hit The Road, based on Steve Purcell’s popular
comic book characters, also owes its’ existence to SCUMM.
The story revolves around Dave Miller, an average teenager, who must enter Dr. Fred’s mansion in order to save his cheerleader girlfriend Sandy; while Dave himself has no abilities of note, he is accompanied by two (out of a pool of six) friends, who can provide their expertise in navigating the mansion’s various environments.
Ultimately, Maniac Mansion came in a period where the adventure genre had a small following (mainly due to the relatively high point of entry for text parser-based interfaces) and pushed the boundaries open by simplifying the player’s interaction into a more intuitive form, thus attracting a larger player following (and consequently, greater interest by developers); it is thus my belief that Maniac Mansion was partially responsible for the adventure game boom of the 90’s and though the genre itself has evolved in new and interesting directions, the game itself is still a great example of innovative design.
 

 Resources:

Thoughts – Building Consistency and DLC, Fallout: New Vegas

This article explores the various narrative links contained in Fallout: New Vegas and its’ three DLC: Dead Money, Honest Hearts and Old World Blues. As these links have been implemented with verisimilitude in mind, certain spoilers about all three DLC, as well as the upcoming Lonesome Road DLC, cannot be avoided – read at your own risk.

Disclaimer: As this post discusses how DLC can (with a bit of forward planning) help build consistency and thematic cohesion in the game world, several examples are brought. Day-1 DLC, such as “Prisoner of Stone” (Dragon Age: Origins) or the “Gun Sonata Pack” (Bulletstorm) should not be considered as true DLC as their purpose is to serve as an incentive to steer buyers away from used game markets (since said DLC are one-use codes). Such content is usually (if not always) developed concurrent to the main game; therefore analysis towards narrative expansion is rendered inconsequential.

One of Ulysses’ markings in Old
World Blues, these are common…

Concerning DLC, the vast majority of released meta-content (consisting of narrative expansions, such as additional quests, plot lines etcetera) is usually disconnected, or at least remote, from the main world’s plot and narrative – a good example would be Mass Effect 2’s “Kasumi – Stolen Memory”; while the DLC provides an interesting narrative, it is largely unconnected to the main plot.

Fallout: New Vegas and its’ DLC, however, follow a (relatively) unexplored method of interactivity between the main game and subsequent released content: while the DLC’s themselves are mostly self-contained stories, effort has been made to “tie in” their characters, story arcs and (in some cases) lore to each other, as well as to the main game.

Though their function is, thus far
unexplained (though speculated).

A good example is the character of Christine, first appearing in Dead Money; through various dialogue paths, the player learns that Christine is possibly a romantic acquaintance of Veronica Santangelo’s, a party member from the main game and has ties to Father Elijah (Dead Money’s main antagonist) who, via Veronica’s various conversations, is revealed to have been instrumental to both characters’ story lines.

What is even more surprising, however, is that Christine is also referenced in Old World Blues, where she was captured and experimented upon (thus the scarring the player character notices when she’s first introduced), while hunting down Father Elijah; it is heavily hinted that the events in Big MT result in Elijah’s eventual discovery of Sierra Madre (as again, several mentions are made – mostly via environmental cues – about Big MT’s involvement in designing and equipping Sierra Madre).

Christine, first shown in Dead Money
is revealed to have visited Big MT.

This unusual approach is taken to its’ extremes with the character of Ulysses; the mysterious Courier mentioned in the main game as the original courier in charge of the Platinum Chip, therefore instrumental in the player character’s involvement with the events of New Vegas. Ulysses is hinted at having a grudge against the player character, a concept (presumably) resolved in the final New Vegas DLC, Lonesome Road.

Several mentions are made across all DLC, as well as at certain points in the original game, that combine into an overarching story line leading into Lonesome Road; both Christine and Dog (Dead Money) reference Ulysses in the DLC’s ending slideshow, Joshua Graham (Honest Hearts) makes a passing remark during his first encounter with the player and finally, Old World Blues contains several environmental props, dialogue and audio-only cues hinting at his involvement with Big MT. and the Christine/Elijah conflict.

The Think Tank has some cryptic
info regarding Ulysses.

While using such foreshadowing techniques is not unheard of in games (good examples include the Citadel Keepers in Mass Effect and the FFVII “Holy” materia), it is a rare example of advance planning and good storytelling that DLC can not only expand, but also tie in with the existing narrative, in a display more commonly found in comic books (see continuity).

Ultimately, using said techniques serves as an example that with proper forward planning, the narrative can transcend its’ static nature and gain a more believable and quasi-dynamic feel; this, in result, helps the player immerse themselves into the game world, thus enhancing their experience considerably.

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Fallout: New Vegas Wiki Page

Thoughts – Incorporating Clichés and DLC, Old World Blues

This article discusses how using stereotypes and genre clichés can improve the overall narrative experience, as seen in the Fallout: New Vegas DLC, Old World Blues. As describing such devices is unavoidable, there is a high degree of spoilers involved – read at your own risk.

Old World Blues is the third of
 four planned New Vegas DLC.

As of writing this post, Old World Blues is the latest (and so far, most popular) DLC for Fallout: New Vegas. The basic premise revolves around a pre-War research facility based under Big Mountain (referred to in-game as Big MT or Big Empty) which, after the onset of the nuclear holocaust, became isolated from the outside world; eventually, it developed myth-like properties as a no-man’s-land where the horrors and wonders of pre-War technology would lay claim to even the most accomplished explorer.

The entire DLC is built around the science fiction clichés of the 50’s – including mad scientists keen on making thunderous declarations of intention, semi-robotic wildlife gone mad from constant experimentation, secret underground laboratories built around (arguably) unethical goals and over-the-top contraptions that function based on quasi-scientific terminology. The initial goals, for example, revolve around retrieving the player character’s brain, spine and heart, surgically removed and replaced with cybernetic surrogates at the DLC’s onset; while never properly explained, the game’s justification remains curiously consistent with the in-universe science and provides a mindset consisting of both hilarity and drama – helped by a running b-story about the previous Courier Six (the protagonist’s predecessor), which will be the focus of a future post.

Meet the Think Tank, the greatest
collection of preserved brains…

The main cast is also steeped deep in said stereotypes; the “Think Tank”, a collection of former scientists’ brains preserved in floating mechanical constructs are a pastiche of various “mad doctor” archetypes, each developed expertly into a functioning, believable entity, consistent with the cosmology of the Fallout universe.

While the characters come across as over-the-top (understandable, as that’s consistent with the genre the developers went for), they never devolve into caricatures of their selves, as each one has certain flaws and redeeming qualities worked expertly into their backgrounds (a personal favourite is Dr. Borous); conversely, they’re all given a series of motives that fall definitively outside the good/evil spectrum of standard storytelling fare – there are no black and white motivations apparent here – while the ending is predictable to a degree, it still manages to convey logical motives for each character, helping flesh them out and give an additional layer of depth (even provoking a rare case of meta-thinking in Dr. Mobious’ case).

…and face-monitors in the post-War
scientific scene.

None of this is apparent at a first glance, however; the true triumph of Old World Blues lies in its’ ability to remain a light-hearted adventure despite the undercurrent of morally-ambiguous motivations and to the developers’ credit, it manages to do that seamlessly, without the transition becoming readily apparent.

Moments of drama are gently replaced by hilarious encounters, such as the “School” encounter: tasked with running a “Communist Detection Simulation” (consistent with the USA of the 50’s view of the world), the player runs a gauntlet constructed to resemble a school built by Dr. Borous. During the final run, the player encounters Borous’ pet dog, cybernetically modified and conditioned to be lethally aggressive. As one of the possible outcomes, the dog dies, prompting Dr. Borous to deliver a tearful speech (incidentally a great moment of character development) which is then promptly interrupted by Dr. Mobious’ robotic scorpions; in the ensuing fight the player is treated to a good deal of hilarious, over-the-top one-liners asserting Mobious’ supremacy over the rest of the scientists in true sci-fi “camp” style – the shift of tone is almost imperceptible and always remains true to the in-universe rules and behaviours.

Apparently, a psychotic toaster fits
right in with the DLC’s theme…

The secondary characters have also been infused with the same twist: The Sink, the player’s base of operations within Big MT is populated by sentient household appliances, complete with distinct and (most importantly) likeable personalities; personal favourites include the “old army veteran” medical station and the “former blues singer” jukebox – each appliance is given a very distinct and stereotypical persona, adding up to a “community” of sorts, vibrant and (thankfully) cohesive as a whole.

…as does the mandatory giant
robotic scorpion boss.

In the end, what stands out the most isn’t the characters, the locales or even the narrative; the entire experience is expertly weaved from its’ components, justifying the adage “the whole is greater than the sum of its’ parts”. Such efforts should be applauded and used as an example in how even age-old stereotypes can be utilized in modern endeavours – with proper use, a cliché ceases to be a tired repetitive gimmick and instead becomes a solid foundation in the development process.

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