By far the most common kind of complaint about JRPGs is that
they are 'unrealistic' – most commonly in their combat systems or character
designs. This holds true despite the fact that all JRPGs are fantasy stories of
one kind or another (I know of no exceptions). In fact, given that nearly every
western game is also fantastical, it's weird that we care about 'realism' at
all in games.
Anyone who's ever been told that people of colour in The Witcher would be unrealistic but
demons and ghosts are fine will be unsurprised at the suggestion that there's
something ideological in our use of 'realism'. Trace the concept carefully
enough, though, and this is revealed as the tip of a very large iceberg. The
valorisation of 'realism' goes alongside many of the most toxic features of
games culture.
First we should get clear about exactly what 'realism' means
in games. There are two things that seem to be important here. The first is
obvious: the idea that game worlds should simulate relevant features of the
real world. The second takes a little more explaining but concerns authorship
and the relationship a game establishes (or doesn't) between its players and
creators.
No video game has ever accurately simulated anything more
complex than very basic physics. The computational resources have never been
available – the kind of high-detail simulations sometimes used in scientific
research frequently use orders of magnitude more computing power than a PC or
home console can provide. For the most part, game 'simulations' are complex
systems of smoke and mirrors that aim at the appearance of simulation without its substance.
Even in this attenuated sense, some things are easier to
simulate than others. Computers are number-crunchers; things that are easier to
quantify are easier to computerise. The physical properties of medium-sized
material objects (at least, those without complex internal structures) are
probably easiest. Prices, which are already quantification, are also easy to
handle.
RPGs are often taken as simulations, in this reduced sense,
of particular people; the reduction of human beings to numbers. This is a bad
way of looking at them, generally, but in looking at what RPGs can and can't
plausibly be thought to simulate, it's possible to see hints of the underlying
ideology. Anyone who's ever tried to play a tabletop RPG with 'social combat' –
the reduction of conversation to dice-rolling – can attest to how far short it
falls of modelling human interaction. Video games rarely even try on this
front, except for the odd dialogue option locked behind a stat or RNG
requirement.
The dream of video game simulation, I think, is the same as
the simulation dreams of futurists like Nick Bostrom: that there is some
algorithm, and a sufficiently powerful computer to run it, that will generate
whole virtual worlds from first principles, lacking perhaps the fine structure
that we can never perceive in the real world anyway but nevertheless perfectly
convincing to human perception. Such virtual worlds would be no different from
the real world, except in respect of how they are constituted – by silicon and
electrical charge rather than whatever the building blocks of the real world
turn out to be.
I am sceptical that an algorithm of this kind exists, and
even more so that a computer could be built to run it. But even if I am proved
wrong, it will not be for a long time yet – the simulations we will make and
play in for many years yet will be reductive approximations with the rough
edges very carefully hidden from view (think for a moment about how angrily
gamers react when the rough edges aren't
well-enough hidden, especially when these moments are perceived as 'glitches').
In a way, the second important feature of realism builds on
this concealment. It's the lie of completeness, the effort to hide all the ways
in which a game is a software artifact rather than a comprehensive world. Most
importantly, though (and in a sense most 'realistically'), it's the hiding of
the role of designers and craftspeople in the creation of game-worlds. The real
world doesn't show any unambiguous evidence of design, so a game world can't be
'realistic' if it does.
This is where some of the excitement over procedural
generation comes from. It's not just that algorithmically-led games offer
inexhaustible permutations of level and encounter design for a finite cost. Just
as the real world emerges from the wilderness of basic physics, so
procedurally-generated spaces emerge from the mathematical wilderness of the
algorithm anew with each instantiaion.
There is, of course, a long tradition of other art forms
incorporating randomness in composition ('aleatoricism'). I see this as almost
diametrically opposed to the mainstream attitude to procgen in video games. In
other artforms, procedural generation has aimed at spreading out our concept of
artistic value; in games, the many instantiations of a procedural algorithm are
supposed to converge on some particular value – fun, or 'replayability' (notice
how this term frames the experience as a repeat despite its claim to newness or
variety).
And the appearance of emergence, the placing of a
mathematical wilderness between developers and players, also spreads a thin
veneer of neutrality over in-game events. Gamer and designer both can point to
the algorithm and say 'I didn't want this specifically, the computer did it'.
This is the technological analogue of economic meritocracy – people born rich
handing off all responsibility for the inequalities they benefit from to 'the
market' or the lottery of birth.
All of which clearly travels with the poisonous devaluing of
developer labour that pervades the game industry. If a game developer's only
task is to produce an algorithm that replicates reality, there's no reason for
anything creative or personal to intrude. No specific person needs to do the
work, provided someone does, so one developer is much as good as another and
there's no reason to care if one is fired, burned out, or excluded by hostile
office culture. One could almost say that developers themselves are treated as
algorithms – 'coffee in, code out', as the mug has it.
I try to avoid calling this 'realism' in my own work, though
I've drawn this definition from how that word is used in games. The real –
whatever it may be – is not algorithmic, nor is it ever impersonal. Instead, I
prefer to call this ideology 'naturalism'. It is the idea that the order that
produces game worlds cannot be moralised or challenged – in just the way that
we are encouraged to take the material world. It's just something we find
ourselves in, we have to accept it...
...by which, of course, the speaker always means 'we' have
to accept the part of it they want you to accept.
This goes some way to explaining why these two features of
realism are prized so highly in games culture, but we can dig deeper yet. We
value simulation because the more detailed a simulation is, the closer its
objects approach to the kind of reality we ascribe to 'ordinary', 'real'
material objects; we value these because that's how we've been encultured under
capitalism. The quality or character of the experience produced by an object
doesn't matter except insofar as it reflects its thing-ness.
(This kind of materialism – the valuing of stuff over humanity – takes root under
capitalism because stuff is easy to quantify, surveil and control. Stuff,
including human flesh, can be subjected to physical force; predictive models
can be formulated about the future behaviours of stuff. Again, Bostrom's
simulations are an echo of this.)
Explaining the valorisation of naturalism is more complex.
After all, if games are art – as so many different segments of games culture
assert so vehemently, with varying degrees of sincerity and understanding –
perhaps the most obvious feature of art is that it is in some sense the product
of intentional action. That's not to say that authorship is essential to or
necessarily an important part of the theory of art; only that what delineates
such-and-such an artwork as itself is
the scope of the labour invested in its creation.
In one sense, then, there's a conflict between the
concealment of the labour in game development and the claim that games are works of art. In practical terms, the
apparent contradiction can be resolved by recognising that most of the people
who value naturalism are declaring games to be art either disingenuously or
without any substantive understanding of what it means to say something is art. Capitalist labour theory does more
to explain the emphasis on naturalism than any of the surface claims games
culture makes around the topic.
I need to be a bit careful in how I approach this area. This
is material I studied at an English university, where it was presentated as
entirely natural and right, and it's only relatively recently that I've got my
head far enough out of that culture to see the problems with it. Hopefully I
can describe this theory without implicitly endorsing it; let me state for the
record that I certainly don't intend
to endorse it.
The theory I want to talk about is often attributed to John
Locke, though there's an argument that it took on a meaning Locke never
intended with the advent of the industrial revolution. For Locke, property is a
natural right (there's that word again – remember that 'natural' generally indicates
something that you're supposed to accept without question)
The argument goes something like this: we all have a
fundamental right to life, and we all, as a fundamental part of being human,
own our own bodies. To live, we need various forms of sustenance, and to
sustain ourselves, we need to put these forms of sustenance into our bodies in
such a way that they become part of
our bodies – and thus part of our property. So there must be a point at which
we take or claim ownership of the stuff we eat, drink, and otherwise depend on
to live.
For Locke, the turning point is the application of our own
labour to the raw materials of sustenance – the archetype of this being growing
your own crop to eat it. A pack of seeds, a patch of soil and a shovel full of
fertiliser don't make a particularly edible or nutritious meal; a farmer
labours to combine these into a crop of vegetables that can be eaten. Locke holds that the farmer's labour has become the
edibility of the crop – that, in a sense, the farmer has actually combined part
of theirself with the seeds and soil. By the principle of self-ownership, then,
the farmer owns the crop even before they eat it.
There are a lot of complexities on top of this. Locke
proposes a couple of limits on our right to 'appropriate' raw material from
nature in this way: that we have to leave enough for others and that we
shouldn't cultivate more than we need, to avoid wastage. However, he also
introduces the possibility of trade, and from that the idea of currency, which
can be accumulated indefinitely without transgressing either limitation. This
is how the theory makes the jump to justifying large-scale modern capitalism.
The theoretical stuff may sound fanciful, but it's not the
logic of the argument that's the problem so much as the principle of
self-ownership. This was an obvious way for a 17th-century
philosopher to talk about bodily autonomy as a right within the context of a
fundamentally feudal society, but that doesn't make it a good way to do so.
That we have a right of some sort to bodily autonomy should be self-evident,
but it's not clear what the theory gains by turning this into a property over our own bodies (unless, of
course, you're specifically trying to justify capitalism).
Much of the more complex later stages of the theory aren't
of interest right now. It's the basic idea of labour-mixing that I think is
relevant. A crucial part of Locke's view is that, without the consent of other
human beings, we can only appropriate raw materials from nature. I can't harvest your crop without your permission, but
I can take unclaimed land and raise my own crop there (it's probably important
to note that, according to Locke, in doing so I come to own the land as well,
since in working the soil I inevitably increase its productivity).
There's another precondition, too, which is that Locke, a
Christian, believed the Earth to have been given to humanity by God
specifically for the purpose of sustaining us. We had not just a right but a
god-given imperative to cultivate it. Locke's scornful and racist remarks about
'primitive' cultures not doing enough cultivating to count as having taken
ownership of the land they live on certainly emerge in this context, and served
to justify the disposession and displacement of native peoples who opposed
European colonisation.
What does this have to do with video games? Well, there's no
'unclaimed nature' in the real world anymore – all (or at least almost all)
land is legally the domain of some institution or individual. If video game
environments are analogous to the real world thanks to simulation, though, they
offer us new, unclaimed, natural worlds with each new instantiation.
That frees gamers, in some sense, to appropriate new
property from their virtual activities. Of course, virtual objects can't be
literally mixed with a person's body for sustenance, but real human activity
(button-pressing, and decisions about which buttons to press) can be mixed with
virtual objects to produce new phenomena, or at least new instantiations of
designed phenomena – this is what happens whenever a player input affects
whatever's on screen or coming out of the speakers.
(It's definitely true that player activity contributes to
the production of new and valuable experiences during play, but experiences –
being non-material – aren't often highly-valued under capitalism. They're too
ephemeral, too hard to measure and control.)
This leaves two problems. Firstly, because these virtual
natures are infinitely reinstantiable, anyone can possess them – there's
nothing special about possessing what
anyone can have. Secondly, button-pressing, and making decisions about which
buttons to press, generally doesn't rank very highly on the arbitrary scale of
labour value that our culture has built.
'Difficulty' – a word that, like 'realism', turns out to
have a special, and pretty incoherent, meaning in video games – is the crutch
used to remedy this. 'Difficult' work is supposed to be more valuable, which is
why we pay bankers millions and nurses barely a living wage (to say nothing of
the pittance we pay to people who can, by mind-blowing dexterity and stamina,
keep a supermarket checkout flowing through lunchtime rush). Similarly, if a
thing is 'difficult' to do, that is supposed to entail that few people have
done it; if a thing is difficult to appropriate, then few people must own it,
restoring its scarcity.
I hardly need to make explicit the relationships to games
culture here, but also there are too many apposite examples to list. It's every
'hard' difficulty mode that describes itself as 'the way the game was meant to
be played' and every gamer who says 'well, you haven't really beaten it until you've beaten it on hard'. It's also every
single use of the phrase 'dumbing down', and every complaint about 'girl
gamers', 'casual gamers' and other dogwhistles for non-cishet-white-male
gamers.
(There's a reciprocal relationship here, too, just as in
conventional capitalism. Activities that are associated with less-privileged
groups get devalued by that association, so it's entirely consistent that forms
of game interaction associated with less-privileged groups are automatically
assumed to be less 'difficult' – and thus a less legitimate path to owning
games-culture real estate).
But most of the games celebrated as 'hard' are actually
finely-tuned to be completable. Think how narrow the tolerances are on a Super Meat Boy level. Or how carefully
the challenge of Demon's Souls rises
to each boss, how there's always just
enough room that, if you're really
good, you can dodge and not die. It takes extraordinary testing to produce
that kind of precision in experience.
Difficulty as it features in life in the real world is a
very different beast. Not everyone starts with the same basic resources.
Misfortune can ruin a life in seconds without warning or recourse to justice. Games
that come close to this pattern (and few if any really deliver it, since the
costs are so carefully constrained within the virtual) tend to be regarded as
'unfair' and shoddily-made (interestingly, a lot of older, less
well-known-in-the-west Japanese RPGs fall into this category).
If we still lived against the backdrop of Locke's
theological context, with our appropriations justified because God ordained
them for us, this might not be a problem. But the context has changed, perhaps
vaguely thanks to Darwin. The idea that ownership is a paternalistic grant from
a benevolent deity smacks of 'participation trophies' and – again – 'dumbing
down'.
So just as capitalism has come to function without the idea
that the world was created by God for our benefit, and even depend on its
absence, so games culture needs to deny that its worlds are created
specifically to be claimed.
All this, of course, is a barely-plausible web of half-baked
ideological positions. There are contradictions if you look much closer than I
have here. And it would be wrong to say that the culture as a lived and enacted
thing was predetermined by this structure of ideas; ideologies are always
constituted by the human behaviours they promote. But a chair is constituted by
the ass-holding-up behaviours of its legs and seat, and it's still true that the chair holds your ass up.
JRPGs – specifically the Square Enix/later Final Fantasy kind – have suffered more
than most under this ideology not only because they make little pretense of
simulation. This particular strand, which has come to stand for the whole
Japanese RPG tradition in the west by accident of marketing and sales more than
any defining aesthetic or formal feature, also unapologetically lifts and
guides the player, arranging the environments and encounters carefully around
them. There's no better example of this than Final Fantasy XIII, and we know how that was received.
There's nothing neutral or simple about the way video games
use 'realism', nor about the complaint that such-and-such a game isn't
'realistic'. This terminology is grounded both in an immediate
material/industrial context and in a philosophical history that predates video
games by several centuries. The baggage that we bring in when we talk about
realism is complex, dangerous and already contributing to wide-ranging harm.
