Journal articles on the topic 'Musical gameplay'

The author presents an experimental musical video game called iGotBand. Fans are central to the game's narrative, capturing a feedback loop in which the audience shares responsibility for performance.

Musical computer games and their reward structures are transforming solitary and participative music making. Visuals in musical games tend to assume the role of music in video games as they become incidental to the gameplay or provide graphical aid for musical decision making. Constrained manifestations of musical skill in game software simulations point towards the development of real world musical skills. Yet, arguably, no video game so far developed requires the kind of sophisticated expression that a musician hones by training. The time-scale for mastery is an order of magnitude greater in traditional musical instruments and teaching, but we may be at the dawn of a new audiovisual musical learning paradigm.

This research was held to design & create games that can provide children with knowledge of traditional musical instruments in Central Java.The initial design of the game is done by collecting data by interviewing the speakers. The game was created using Construct 2. This game has 5 different gameplay and when completing each stage you will get 3 traditional musical instruments except stage 5. Players can get information about traditional musical instruments and the sounds they produce. The game was tested on 41 respondents and the results of the game had a positive impact on players and provided new knowledge about traditional musical instruments.

The musical palette and gameplay format of The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild is significantly different from earlier games in the Legend of Zelda series. The unique narrative organization of this game interacts with the different musical style to suggest a new mode of storytelling within the franchise. This article examines the narrative structure of Breath of the Wild, then groups various contrasting musical elements into emerging topics that are key elements within the game’s narrative structure. In particular, the mechanistic topic is tied to ancient technology, while a contrasting nature topic denotes the living creatures of the gameworld. These topical cues give players important information about their in-game surroundings by linking locations, characters, and events through a completely player-driven narrative discourse.

Platformer level generation has often used a beat metaphor to relate to how players interact with level geometry. However, this conceptualization of beats is different from the musical concept of `beat', limiting the utility of theories and tools developed in music analysis for platformer levels. A gameplay gestalt, a pattern of interaction that the player enacts or performs in order to make progress in a game, may fit the beat metaphor. By taking a very similar lens and viewing players playing platformer levels as enacting a series of gameplay gestalts through time, gestalt music analysis (GMA) does fit into the platformer domain. This paper details work on transforming a GMA model to work with the Platformer Experience Dataset (PED), and some promising first results of the transformed model.

The voice as disruption is not a new concept. Disruptions to discourses, relationships and lifestyles can be caused by the insertion of the voice. In video games, voices can be disruptive to player progressions, gameplay and character relationships through dialogue and performances. The female entertainer frequently disrupts the aural space of a game through her uniqueness as a performer at the forefront of the diegetic space, using song to tell her own story. The video games The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt (2015), Transistor (2014) and Divinity Original Sin II (2017) use diegetic female entertainer voices to disrupt the video game’s continuity. These case studies consider performance as disruption to gameplay, which is significant for the growth of the story and its characters, alongside the player’s understanding of the game’s musical meanings.

This article presents practice-based research exploring the interplay of real-time music creation and competitive gameplay. Musically creative video games, apps, and sound art are first surveyed to highlight their characteristic avoidance of competitive game elements. The relationship between play, games, and musical activity is then examined with reference to theoretical perspectives from ludomusicology and game studies, revealing a series of mechanical and aesthetic design tensions emerging between competitive gameplay and music creation. Two original music games are presented to explore this interplay across contrasting design approaches: EvoMusic engenders an abstract competitive dialogue between the player and system for authorial control, while Idea presents a more explicit ludic framework with goals, progression, danger, and victory. The games are evaluated in a comparative user study to capture the player experience of composing within competitive game settings. Participant responses revealed conflicting expectations for ludic and compositional experiences. Idea was the preferred game, yet its strong ludic elements distracted from or disincentivized music creation; EvoMusic offered more focused music creation yet also a weaker gameplay experience for lacking these same competitive elements. This relationship reflects the theoretical design tensions suggested by ludomusical scholarship. Further, a majority of participants characterized EvoMusic as being simultaneously competitive and creatively stimulating. The implication is that competitive games can support music creation for certain players, though it remains challenging to satisfy expectations for both within any one system. Design recommendations are drawn from these insights, and the potential for future research into creative music games is discussed.

Digital games are a fertile ground for exploring novel computer music applications. While the lineage of game-based compositional praxis long precedes the advent of digital computers, it flourishes now in a rich landscape of music-making apps, sound toys and playful installations that provide access to music creation through game-like interaction. Characterising these systems is the pervasive avoidance of a competitive game framework, reflecting an underlying assumption that notions of conflict and challenge are somewhat antithetical to musical creativity. As a result, the interplay between competitive gameplay and musical creativity is seldom explored. This article reports on a comparative user evaluation of two original games that frame interactive music composition as a human–computer competition. The games employ contrasting designs so that their juxtaposition can address the following research question: how are player perceptions of musical creativity shaped in competitive game environments? Significant differences were found in system usability, and also creativity and ownership of musical outcomes. The user study indicates that a high degree of musical control is widely preferred despite an apparent cost to general usability. It further reveals that players have diverse criteria for ‘games’ which can dramatically influence their perceptions of musical creativity, control and ownership. These findings offer new insights for the design of future game-based composition systems, and reflect more broadly on the complex relationship between musical creativity, games and competition.

Abstract This article proposes arguments proving that the act of playing a video game may attract copyright protection in the context of European intellectual property law. This article explores this from a multidisciplinary perspective including performance studies and EU copyright law. The increasingly popular practice and industry of ‘public gaming’ is suggesting that playing video games is now enriched with elements belonging more to musical and recitative performances. However, while actors and musicians’ performances constitute undeniable bricks of the creative process in presentations to the public, there is no such thing called ‘video game performance’ or ‘gaming performance’. The article suggests that, under certain conditions, players’ agency is able to generate a multi-layered meaning among players, audiences and the game.1 Therefore, after building a theoretical framework where gameplays are featured by theatrical performance qualities, the article proposes a definition of ‘public gaming performance’. After that, it uses such a definition to suggest that certain public gameplays, as well as being public performances under the performative studies umbrella, have everything they need to enjoy copyright protection under EU copyright law. On the one hand, then, this article uses theatrical models to shape gaming as a performative activity. On the other hand, it analyses the legal structures and mechanisms preventing game stream from attracting copyright protection while providing the reader with observations on the main obstacles to the full empowerment of players as performers.

Digital music technologies have evolved by leaps and bounds over the last 10 years. The most popular digital music games allow gamers to experience the performativity of music, long before they have the requisite knowledge and skills, by playing with instrument-shaped controllers (e.g. Guitar Hero, Rock Band, Sing Star, Wii Music), while others involve plugging conventional electric guitars into a game console to learn musical technique through gameplay (e.g. Rocksmith). Many of these digital music environments claim to have educative potential, and some are actually used in music classrooms. This article discusses the findings from a pilot study to explore what high school age students could gain in terms of musical knowledge, skill and understanding from these games. We found students improved from pre- to post-assessment in different areas of musicianship after playing Sing Party, Wii Music and Rocksmith, as well as a variety of games on the iPad.

The aim of this text is to discern and analyze aesthetic tropes in selected fantasy cRPG games in the areas of visual arts and music. The analysis is con­ducted in the context of American romanticism, especially Hudson River School of painting, and musical works belonging to the dungeon synth genre. Through the enumeration and close reading of the elements pertaining both gameplay and digital landscapes, it is argued that the specific type of romantic imagery and its philosophical underpinnings may have influenced the recurring themes in cRPG games, including character development, avatar’s agency and player’s projected disposition towards the game world.

Small Radios Big Televisions (2016) guides the player through a series of abandoned modern factories to locate objects and solve puzzles, including cassette tapes that transport them to virtual locations. Each tape presents a diorama-like environment, ranging from natural environments, including forests and beaches. Throughout Small Radios Big Televisions players must warp and electronically distort music and sounds, magnetizing tapes. These musical disruptions of the tape tracks are a core game mechanic. This article draws on autoethnographic gameplay, material and spatial analysis to investigate how players explore abandoned worlds stored on glitchy analogue cassettes full of visual and sonic noise.

Each playthrough of Ed Key and David Kanaga's Proteus (2013) presents players with a new, randomly generated island to explore. This unstructured exploration is accompanied by a procedurally generated ambient soundtrack that incorporates both harmonic textures and melodic motives, and abstract musical representations of environmental sounds. In the absence of clearly defined goals—except to progress through four distinct “seasons” of the game—the player's relationship to the soundtrack becomes a core gameplay element, and a playthrough of Proteus becomes, among other things, a kind of improvised performance art. Viewed from this perspective, Proteus's combination of free exploration and chance strongly evokes ideas from mid-twentieth-century musical modernism, including the graphic scores of Cardew and Cage and the “mobile form” works of Stockhausen and Ligeti. Proteus further complicates analysis by concealing the mechanisms that produce particular musical fragments and by eliding the roles of listener and player/performer. This article examines the tensions inherent in the complementary actions of playing/performing Proteus and listening to/analyzing it, and argues that the game challenges the distinctions between creator, performer, and observer by vividly embodying the most deeply ingrained metaphors of music analysis.

This article explores how Pokémon Sun and Pokémon Moon use Hawaiian musical tropes and nondiegetic signifiers throughout the games, helping to “situate the player in the game.” This identification relies on a combination of player cultural literacy and game musical literacy to contextualize the Pokémon region of Alola. The soundscape of the game is made up of the underscore, incorporating traditional instruments from the steel guitar to Ka'eke'eke drums, alongside diegetic sounds to evoke and situate gameplay in a culture and geography most likely foreign to the player. The player’s ability to contextualize and situate themselves in this region relies on a combination of their cultural and game musical literacy. This investigation will also address the consumption of Hawaiian culture both within Japan and in the West, and the portrayal of its traditional music and performance within not only the Pokémon franchise but other AAA game titles that have been enjoyed globally. The use of these musical tropes and nondiegetic signifiers simultaneously grounds the player in the region of Alola, whilst constructing a sense of “otherness” in a Hawaiian soundscape designed by composers who are observing and enjoying the culture as tourists and visitors. The soundscape developed for Alola takes inspiration from traditional Hawaiian culture and music, but it ultimately diverges from these musical traditions and thereby produces a sonic environment unique to the fictional region. Consequently, players develop a literacy built through a return to the sounds traditionally associated with the Pokémon game franchise with a new addition of Hawaiian musical tropes to create a region that serves as something of a pastiche of Hawai'i, packaged to be culturally palatable and consumable to nonnative audiences.

Canadian artist Patsy Gallant (born 1948), who achieved worldwide commercial success as a disco queen, released Take Another Look in 1984. The album tells the story of the “High Tech Girl,” a female cyborg character that serves as a metaphor for Patsy herself to address the imminent end of her marriage to musician Dwayne Ford through the album. For the first time in the singer’s discography, synthesizers and MIDI sequencers took a predominant role. Those new digital technologies inspired the construction of a futuristic piece where distinct elements such as the sleeve photos, the lyrics, the musical arrangements, and the final sound interacted with each other according to an unevenly organized concept. Sound effects and repeating short musical loops were created with the synthesizers to represent narrative elements through the tracks. This article combines interpretative studies, musical analysis, semiotics, and studies related to Patsy Gallant’s biography (as well as her accounts of the making of the album during interviews and conversations with the author) to investigate the intersections between Take Another Look and the background music presented in early home console games, as well as the overall influences of early video game music on the album. It takes into consideration some concepts featured in video game design and game audio literature, notably studies of game narrative, the function of audio elements on gameplay, and game semiotics. In the article, Take Another Look is highlighted as an innovative album where video games are important narrative and sonic references. The language of video games impacts the artistic concept of the record and the metaphors related to both the construction of Patsy Gallant’s musical persona and the music for the project.

The relationship between music, sound, space, and time plays a crucial role in attempts to define the concept of “immersion” in video games. Isabella van Elferen’s ALI (affect-literacy-interaction) model for video game musical immersion offers one of the most integrated approaches to reading connections between sonic cues and the “magic circle” of gameplay. There are challenges, however, in systematically applying this primarily event-focused model to particular aspects of the “open-world” genre. Most notable is the dampening of narrative and ludic restrictions afforded by more intricately layered textual elements, alongside open-ended in-game environments that allow for instances of more nonlinear, exploratory gameplay. This article addresses these challenges through synthesizing the ALI model with more spatially focused elements of Gordon Calleja’s player involvement model, exploring sonic immersion in greater depth via the notion of spatiotemporal involvement. This presents a theoretical framework that broadens analysis beyond a simple focus on the immediate narrative or ludic sequence. Ubisoft’s open-world action-adventure franchise Assassin’s Creed is a particularly useful case study for the application of this concept. This is primarily because of its characteristic focus on blending elements of the historical game and the open-world game through its use of real-world history and geography. Together, the series’s various diegetic and nondiegetic sonic elements invite variable degrees of participation in “historical experiences of virtual space.” The outcome of this research intends to put such intermingled expressions of space, place, and time at the forefront of a ludomusicological approach to immersion in the open-world genre.

In 2012 The Chinese Room launched Dear Esther, a video game that would go on to shape video game history and define a new genre: the walking simulator. Walking simulators renounce traditional game tropes and foreground walking as an aesthetic and as a dramaturgical practice, which engages the walker/player in critical acts of reading, challenging and/or performing a landscape. In October 2016, Dear Esther was adapted as a site-responsive, promenade performance set on the Scottish island of Inchcolm in the Firth of Forth. The resulting performance, Dear Rachel, was then experienced alongside the game under the umbrella name Inchcolm Project. This hybrid event ‐ multimedia (promenade performance, gameplay and musical performance) and mixed-reality (with physical, augmented and virtual components) ‐ required the development and implementation of complex processes of remediation and adaptation. Drawing from a range of theories and practitioner reflection, this article puts forward a design framework ‐ storywalking ‐ which reconciled the two adaptation challenges: responding to the site and to the game.

Echolocation is a rare ability of some bats, dolphins, and humans with reduced sightedness or visual impairment. Often visualized as a type of auditory sight, echolocation has no true analog for sighted humans without the ability, resulting in a wide range of interpretations when game designers attempt to capture this subjective experience. Video games have depicted echolocation with varying degrees of fidelity and realism, from musical scales and maps to fully realized three-dimensional worlds. This variety may be attributed in part to the inaccessible experience of the echolocating subjects. Designers must rely on their own subjective experiences to create a mental image of this ability. Synthesizing aspects of acoustic and biological sciences, philosophy, and disability studies, this article examines depictions of echolocation in video games, demonstrating that games require players to incorporate their own experiences in order to bridge the “explanatory gap” between the subjective experiences of visually impaired characters and knowledge of the objective processes of echolocation that are accessible to sighted players. With examples from Ecco the Dolphin (1992) and Perception (2017), this article will show that designers support their echolocation mechanics with narrative and supplementary information rather than actualizing the experience with gameplay.

Over 70 years ago, Theodor W. Adorno and Hanns Eisler philosophized about functional music in their programmatic script Composing for the Films. In spite of all the social criticism that the authors practiced with relish, it was already about the essential—the determination of a meaningful coexistence of synergetically connected art events. With the spread of video games, the question arises again and again: how to combine action and sound without falling prey to Mickey Mousing effect? As one of the youngest branches of music studies, ludomusicology describes a number of musical application scenarios, systematized according to effects and techniques. Their principles are comprehensible—under normal circumstances. With the Karmaflow—The Rock Opera Videogame, however, a project was started that leads to a new configuration between the media: in this game you play, in a manner of speaking, with or against the music itself. Because of its design, Karmaflow deserves to be considered on its own. Additionally, outside the subgroup of “music-based games”, heavy metal music is an exception among video games. The present essay illustrates the specific concept of the game which indeed can be placed in a range between video games and rock operas. The insights gained through (self-) observation are compared with the results of an exploratory survey. The survey was aimed at revealing the influence of sound on the gaming experience. The majority of respondents confirmed the connection between music and gameplay and the effect of musical characterization on some specific decisions. Test subjects, who, due to their preferences, belonged to the target group of game developers, judged differently than the other experiment participants.

Mezzo is a computer program designed that procedurally writes Romantic-Era style music in real-time to accompany computer games. Leitmotivs are associated with game characters and elements, and mapped into various musical forms. These forms are distinguished by different amounts of harmonic tension and formal regularity, which lets them musically convey various states of markedness which correspond to states in the game story. Because the program is not currently attached to any game or game engine, “virtual” gameplays were been used to explore the capabilities of the program; that is, videos of various game traces were used as proxy examples. For each game trace, Leitmotivs were input to be associated with characters and game elements, and a set of ‘cues’ was written, consisting of a set of time points at which a new set of game data would be passed to Mezzo to reflect the action of the game trace. Examples of music composed for one such game trace, a scene from Red Dead Redemption, are given to illustrate the various ways the program maps Leitmotivs into different levels of musical markedness that correspond with the game state.

In the origin story of futuristic racing game WipEout (Psygnosis, 1995), co-creator Nick Burcombe talks about turning down the game audio in Super Mario Kart (Nintendo, 1992) and substituting it for his own electronic dance music. Burcombe, who was himself a keen participant in the Liverpool rave scene, argues that people who went clubbing in the 1990s were always looking for new forms of interactive entertainment. WipEout, where players take control of anti-gravity ships and race them to the electronic dance music tracks of artists like Cold Storage, The Chemical Brothers, The Prodigy, and Orbital, was that next step in interactive entertainment. For its marketing campaign, WipEout’s packaging took its inspiration from dance music records and PlayStation installed consoles in nightclubs across the UK. In the follow-up to the original, WipEout 2097 or WipEout XL in North America (Psygnosis, 1996), players could put the game disk into a CD player and hear the soundtrack play out in its entirety, separate from the gameplay. Through a close textual analysis of the first and second versions of the game released on PlayStation, created as they were at the height of electronic dance music culture in the UK in the 1990s, and grounded in popular music studies and ludomusicology, this article inquires into the construction of the video game soundtrack, arguing that WipEout’s audiovisual relationship creates a space where players can become immersed in a rave-related experience of techno in their homes. The research finds that Burcombe and the team at Psygnosis set out not to replicate the rave experience in their video game. Rather, in WipEout, dance music is used to immerse players in a mediated extension of the contemporary UK rave venue or club. As players move their racers onscreen, they engage in actions that edge them closer to the game’s soundtrack itself, in its use of repetition and pulsating beats, as an embodied or corporeal performance. Rather than dancing to rave, WipEout’s players are gaming to techno.

This two-video series explores how the scoring to the video game Portal 2, published by Valve Corporation, not only helps tell the game’s story, but also comments on the game developers’ philosophy of puzzle design. The first video explores how the game’s title theme 9999999, including its texture, voice leadings, and chord qualities, musically enacts dual aspects of the character of the game’s central antagonist GlaDOS: once human, her personality was uploaded into a computer mainframe where she has become a sociopathic, homicidal artificial intelligence who takes delight in subjecting humans to hazardous scientific experimentation. The second video demonstrates that 9999999 serves as the theme for a set of double variations in the game’s middle act. Since Valve’s philosophy of player training centers on iterative puzzle-design that systematically increase in complexity, and the musical accompaniments for these puzzles feature coordinated developments in musical complexity, the scoring here lets us parse the puzzle design into a kind of set of gameplay theme-and-variations.

This two-video series explores how the scoring to the video game Portal 2, published by Valve Corporation, not only helps tell the game’s story, but also comments on the game developers’ philosophy of puzzle design. The first video explores how the game’s title theme 9999999, including its texture, voice leadings, and chord qualities, musically enacts dual aspects of the character of the game’s central antagonist GlaDOS: once human, her personality was uploaded into a computer mainframe where she has become a sociopathic, homicidal artificial intelligence who takes delight in subjecting humans to hazardous scientific experimentation. The second video demonstrates that 9999999 serves as the theme for a set of double variations in the game’s middle act. Since Valve’s philosophy of player training centers on iterative puzzle-design that systematically increase in complexity, and the musical accompaniments for these puzzles feature coordinated developments in musical complexity, the scoring here lets us parse the puzzle design into a kind of set of gameplay theme-and-variations.

La música interviene en el videojuego mediante su propio lenguaje acompañando al jugador a lo largo de la ludoficción pudiendo ejercer un rol fundamental en el gameplay. En este trabajo en particular nos cuestionamos el papel que juega la música y su narrativa en los JRPG y concretamente en su participación dentro de los sistemas de batalla o combates. Para esta investigación nos acogemos a la ludomusicología entendida como la subdisciplina que estudia la música en los videojuegos y nos apoyamos en un marco metodológico propio de los game studies. Comprobamos que la música, entre otras funciones, puede actuar desde una capa privilegiada, una supradiégesis musical, capaz de acentuar la acción, ubicar al jugador en el espacio o informar de la dificultad del enfrentamiento influyendo tanto en el relato videolúdico como en la actitud del jugador frente a la batalla, en su inmersión y en su afecto. Music intervenes in the video game with its own language, accompanies the player throughout the game and can play a fundamental role in the gameplay. In this particular work we question the role played by music and its narrative in JRPGs, specifically in its participation in battle systems. For this research we use ludomusicology understood as the subdiscipline that studies music in video games and we rely on a methodological framework of game studies. We verified that the music, among other functions, acts from a privileged layer, a musical supradiegesis, capable of accentuating the action, locating the player in the space or informing about the difficulty of the confrontation and influences the videoludic story and the player in his attitude, his immersion and his affection during battle.

The uses and functions of game music in everyday life The premise of this article is the idea that games and their music do not only relate to playing, but are also part of people’s musical practices outside of the actual gameplay situation. However, so far very little research has been done on the meanings of game music outside of gaming. In this study, we aim for a broader understanding of people’s relationship with game music by examining how game music is used outside of the context of gaming. The empirical analysis of the article is based on two datasets collected in Finland. The primary material consists of written stories (N=183) about personally meaningful game music memories. In addition to this, we use survey data (N=785) concerning people’s activities with their favorite game music outside of the game. In the study, we investigated (1) how varied and common the activities of using game music are, (2) what different types of game music use can be discerned, and (3) what psychological functions of game music are disclosed in the personal stories. According to both datasets, musical practices with game music in people’s everyday life were common. The ways of using game music were also diverse. In general, digital games appear to be a viable resource for engaging in musical practices and acquiring musical experiences. Through cluster analysis, three different types of game music use were outlined from the survey answers: performing/reproducing, reminiscing and appreciating the game experience, which refer to preferences for interacting with game music. Regarding the functions of music, the results imply that the functions of music documented in music psychology literature (mood management, aesthetic pleasure, self-enhancement, memory connection, social bonding) are well suited for analyzing the personal meanings of game music. In all, from the results, it can be established that the aesthetic value of game music for people, at least to some extent, seems to be conditioned by the gameplay experience, even if the music is separated from gaming.

This article provides a detailed method for analyzing smoothness in the seams between musical modules in video games. Video game music is comprised of distinct modules that are triggered during gameplay to yield the real-time soundtracks that accompany players’ diverse experiences with a given game. Smoothness—a quality in which two convergent musical modules fit well together—as well as the opposite quality, disjunction, are integral products of modularity, and each quality can significantly contribute to a game. This article first highlights some modular music structures that are common in video games, and outlines the importance of smoothness and disjunction in video game music. Drawing from sources in the music theory, music perception, and video game music literature (including both scholarship and practical composition guides), this article then introduces a method for analyzing smoothness at modular seams through a particular focus on the musical aspects of meter, timbre, pitch, volume, and abruptness. The method allows for a comprehensive examination of smoothness in both sequential and simultaneous situations, and it includes a probabilistic approach so that an analyst can treat all of the many possible seams that might arise from a single modular system. Select analytical examples from The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker and Portal 2 provide a sampling of the various interpretive gains available through this method.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, or so the story goes anyway. Equally perilous, of course, is the opposite scenario of all play and no work. I'm not quite sure what that might make poor old Jack; unemployed perhaps? For my part, it made me a 'mature student'! Whatever else it may be, though, play is pervasive. It's one of the first things we get to do as human beings (once we've gotten the more immediate concerns of getting fed and changed out of the way), and if we're lucky it will be one of the things we get to do at every other stage of our lives too (again, along with eating and...). It is probably fitting that play should be the organisational concept for this particular issue of M/C, coinciding as it does with one of the more drawn out periods of play in the Western world: Christmas. Coming at this time, it has certainly brought home to me the relationship between work and play, and where to fit the former into the latter. It's probably no surprise, then, that a couple of the articles here should seek to engage with this particular divide. In the feature article for this issue Belinda Barnet explores the idea of hypertext as an avant-garde alternative to the controlled regularity of the linear text, a playful reaction to predetermined possibilities. Reading hypertext is a bit like playing, it's spontaneous, interactive, and a little subversive in that it rejects the notion of following the single linear text all the way to its hidden but preferred meaning. The nodal leaps of reading hypertext leave us always in a state of something like blissful possibility. Thus hypertext should be considered to involve the active translation of being into becoming in an imagined, or virtual space. Though the danger exists that such a reader risks disorientation in the face of the infinite potential offered by hypertextual linking, just as much as he or she risks being subsumed by the passive subject position "demanded by infotainment culture and the encyclopaedic desire it encourages to seek the satisfaction of closure by following seamless links to a buried 'meaning'". Sherman Young examines the point at which playing and living meet; in the dual context, here, of driving simulation computer games and Baudrillard's precession of simulacra. As driving simulators become more and more sophisticated and 'realistic', embodying the thrills and spills of pushing the car to its limits on the open road, or on the Formula One race track, driving itself becomes more and more (for the majority of us at least) of a daily rush-hour crawl, one foot on the clutch and one hand on the wheel, unexciting and not very challenging. Has the play version of driving left the real behind, or is it a fact that the real is no longer real, but hyperreal? Axel Bruns engages with the recent proliferation of what he calls "musical exhumations": the re-forming and touring of well known and commercially safe musical acts on a large scale, playing either old songs, or new songs that sound like old songs. At the root of this 'replay', he contends, is the mainstream music industry's desire to both make a dollar, and respond to a changing mediascape which may well leave the giants behind as it continues to evolve and diversify. At the core of the problems which the music industry monoliths face is bandwith -- the huge number of 'channels' which something like the Internet provides --, and as a consequence, the opportunity on the one hand for marginal operators and audiences to proliferate, and the lack of opportunity on the other hand for the industry to achieve complete coverage for its preferred (i.e. most profitable) products. So, while the new players spread out on the cyber-airwaves, the old players come together in the better class venues; but in the longer term, it seems, the days of the almost complete domination of large-scale industrialised music may be numbered. Kirsty Leishman takes the work of Michel de Certeau on the art of making do as practiced by individuals going about their everyday life, her own experiences as a convenience store employee of five years standing, and the idea of play as "taking delight in inventiveness, trickery, guile and ruse", and melds them all into an explication of how opportunities for play may be found in even the most mundane kinds of work-a-day existences. In doing so she outlines the tactical use of the store's facilities, pursued as much in an effort to find relief from boredom, as to procure an abundant supply of toiletries and confectionary. This article will make you rethink your own ideas on how the Seven-Elevens of the world operate. John Banks starts from the observation that, even if only for their huge sales and the associated hype that goes with that, the playing of computer games has become "a crucial component of the popular cultural terrain". It is also a problematic one in the sense that so many of the games seem to inscribe somewhat questionable gender roles and relations. But Banks wants to go further than merely examining the representational, or textual level of computer games, critically engaging instead with the activity of playing: a visceral event, and one which is repeatedly described by those in the know in terms of the ephemeral concept of Gameplay. This term, he argues, "functions as something of a shared horizon or assumed knowledge" amongst gamers, and may consequently describe something about the attraction of games that hitherto escapes the vocabulary of cultural theorising: that they're fun, but it's hard to explain exactly how or why. The upshot is that because it does not easily lend itself to theoretical explication this does not mean that the eventhood of the game, as expressed in the term 'Gameplay', is to be devalued in seeking to understand computer games as cultural activities; just as issues of representation should not either be simply abandoned. Rebecca Farley, like Kirsty Leishman, also engages with the divide between work and play, but deals with the animation studio as a workplace rather than the convenience store. In doing so she addresses the twin questions of what exactly is play, and how is it practiced? Is it, as Johan Huizinga would have it, a separate thing, to be done in a separate time and place? Or is the distinction more fluid, play being something we do alongside work, or sprinkled in between bits of work? The answer might, of course, have a lot to do with who you work for. Nick Caldwell briefly charts the history of the computer strategy game, in particular its sub-genre, the "God game". The point he is seeking to make is that the parameters of these games, and the symbolism which they both draw upon and reinforce, are resolutely Western in their nature and detail. Success for the player-God in a game like Civilisation, for example, is contingent upon him or her skilfully leading the flock through a human-scale history of exploration, conflict and technological development; all of which, Caldwell argues, amounts to an imposition of an "ahistorically Westernised path of conquest and colonialism" upon the broad canvas of human history in general. Thus, computer strategy games such as this, by so attractively packaging and promoting what is, after all, just one politico-historical model among many, may simply become little more than "effective tools of the hegemonic apparatus". Ben King closes this issue with some thoughts on an aspect of play that would not seem obvious to most of us: playful murder. He explores the genre of yuppie horror films in which the villain, far from being portrayed as a hideous outcast creature, is actually just the same as the victims: young, beautiful, rich; the playfulness coming from the kind of "selfish revelry" they display in their macabre acts. All that remains for me to say at this point, I guess, is that all of us at M/C hope that your revelry over this holiday season has not been of the too macabre kind, (though, if that's what turns you on...), and that you find these offerings enjoyable, informative, or maybe even both. Read on then. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Paul Mc Cormack. "Editorial: 'Play'." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 1.5 (1998). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9812/edit.php>. Chicago style: Paul Mc Cormack, "Editorial: 'Play'," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 1, no. 5 (1998), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9812/edit.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Paul Mc Cormack. (1998) Editorial: 'play'. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 1(5). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9812/edit.php> ([your date of access]).

The contemporary video game market is as recognisable for its brands as it is for the characters that populate their game worlds, from franchise-leading characters like Garrus Vakarian (Mass Effect original trilogy), Princess Zelda (The Legend of Zelda franchise) and Cortana (HALO franchise) to more recent game icons like Miles Morales (Marvel's Spiderman game franchise) and Judy Alvarez (Cyberpunk 2077). Interactions with these casts of characters enhance the richness of games and their playable worlds, giving a sense of weight and meaning to player actions, emphasising thematic interests, and in some cases acting as buffers to (or indeed hindering) different aspects of gameplay itself. As Jordan Erica Webber writes in her essay The Road to Journey, “videogames are often examined through the lens of what you do and what you feel” (14). For many games, the design of interactions between the player and other beings in the world—whether they be intrinsic to the world (non-playable characters or NPCs) or other live players—is a bridging aspect between what you do and how you feel and is thus central to the communication of more cohesive and focussed work. This essay will discuss two examples of game design techniques present in Transistor by Supergiant Games and Journey by thatgamecompany. It will consider how the design of “playful” interactions between the player and other characters in the game world (both non-player characters and other player characters) can be used as a tool to align a player’s experience of “intent” with the thematic objectives of the designer. These games have been selected as both utilise design techniques that allow for this “playful” interaction (observed in this essay as interactions that do not contribute to “progression” in the traditional sense). By looking closely at specific aspects of game design, it aims to develop an accessible examination by “focusing on the dimensions of involvement the specific game or genre of games affords” (Calleja, 222). The discussion defines “intent”, in the context of game design, through a synthesis of definitions from two works by game designers. The first being Greg Costikyan’s definition of game structure from his 2002 presentation I Have No Words and I Must Design, a paper subsequently referenced by numerous prominent game scholars including Ian Bogost and Jesper Juul. The second is Steven Swink’s definition of intent in relation to video games, from his 2009 book Game Feel: A Game Designer’s Guide to Virtual Sensation—an extensive reference text of game design concepts, with a particular focus on the concept of “game feel” (the meta-sensation of involvement with a game). This exploratory essay suggests that examining these small but impactful design techniques, through the lens of their contribution to overall intent, is a useful tool for undertaking more holistic studies of how games are affective. I align with the argument that understanding “playfulness” in game design is useful in understanding user engagement with other digital communication platforms. In particular, platforms where the presentation of user identity is relational or performative to others—a case explored in Playful Identities: The Ludification of Digital Media Cultures (Frissen et al.). Intent in Game Design Intent, in game design, is generated by a complex, interacting economy, ecosystem, or “game structure” (Costikyan 21) of thematic ideas and gameplay functions that do not dictate outcomes, but rather guide behaviour and progression forward through the need to achieve a goal (Costikyan 21). Intent brings player goals in line with the intrinsic goals of the player character, and the thematic or experiential goals the game designer wants to convey through the act of play. Intent makes it easier to invest in the game’s narrative and spatial context—its role is to “motivate action in game worlds” (Swink 67). Steven Swink writes that it is the role of game design to create compelling intent from “a seemingly arbitrary collection of abstracted variables” (Swink 67). He continues that whether it is good or bad is a broader question, but that “most games do have in-born intentionality, and it is the game designer who creates it” (67). This echoes Costikyan’s point: game designers “must consciously set out to decide what kind of experiences [they] want to impart to players and create systems that enable those experiences” (20). Swink uses Mario 64 as one simple example of intent creation through design—if collecting 100 coins did not restore Mario’s health, players would simply not collect them. Not having health restricts the ability for players to fulfil the overarching intent of progression by defeating the game’s main villain (what he calls the “explicit” intent), and collecting coins also provides a degree of interactivity that makes the exploration itself feel more fulfilling (the “implicit” intent). This motivation for action may be functional, or it may be more experiential—how a designer shapes variables into particular forms to encourage the particular kinds of experience that they want a player to have during the act of play (such as in Journey, explored in the latter part of this essay). This essay is interested in the design of this compelling thematic intent—and the role “playful” interactions have as a variable that contributes to aligning player behaviours and experience to the thematic or experiential goals of game design. “Playful” Communication and Storytelling in Transistor Transistor is the second release from independent studio Supergiant Games and has received over 100 industry accolades (Kasavin) since its publication in 2014. Transistor incorporates the suspense of turn-based gameplay into an action role-playing game—neatly mirroring a style of gameplay to the suspense of its cyber noir narrative. The game is also distinctly “artful”. The city of Cloudbank, where the game takes place, is a cyberpunk landscape richly inspired by art nouveau and art deco style. There is some indication that Cloudbank may not be a real city at all—but rather a virtual city, with an abundance of computer-related motifs and player combat abilities named as if they were programming functions. At release, Transistor was broadly recognised in the industry press for its strength in “combining its visuals and music to powerfully convey narrative information and tone” (Petit). If intent in games in part stems from a unification of goals between the player and design, the interactivity between player input and the actions of the player character furthers this sense of “togetherness”. This articulation and unity of hand movement and visual response in games are what Kirkpatrick identified in his 2011 work Aesthetic Theory and the Video Game as the point in which videogames “broke from the visual entertainment culture of the last two centuries” (Kirkpatrick 88). The player character mediates access to the space by which all other game information is given context and allows the player a degree of self-expression that is unique to games. Swink describes it as an amplified impression of virtual proprioception, that is “an impression of space created by illusory means but is experienced as real by the senses … the effects of motion, sound, visuals, and responsive effects combine” (Swink 28). If we extend Swink’s point about creating an “impression of space” to also include an “impression of purpose”, we can utilise this observation to further understand how the design of the playful interactions in Transistor work to develop and align the player’s experience of intent with the overarching narrative goal (or, “explicit” intent) of the game—to tell a compelling “science-fiction love story in a cyberpunk setting, without the gritty backdrop” (Wallace) through the medium of gameplay. At the centre of any “love story” is the dynamic of a relationship, and in Transistor playful interaction is a means for conveying the significance and complexity of those dynamics in relation to the central characters. Transistor’s exposition asks players to figure out what happened to Red and her partner, The Boxer (a name he is identified by in the game files), while progressing through various battles with an entity called The Process to uncover more information. Transistor commences with player-character, Red, standing next to the body of The Boxer, whose consciousness and voice have been uploaded into the same device that impaled him: the story’s eponymous Transistor. The event that resulted in this strange circumstance has also caused Red to lose her ability to speak, though she is still able to hum. The first action that the player must complete to progress the game is to pull the Transistor from The Boxer’s body. From this point The Boxer, speaking through the Transistor, becomes the sole narrator of the game. The Boxer’s first lines of dialogue are responsive to player action, and position Red’s character in the world: ‘Together again. Heh, sort of …’ [Upon walking towards an exit a unit of The Process will appear] ‘Yikes … found us already. They want you back I bet. Well so do I.’ [Upon defeating The Process] ‘Unmarked alley, east of the bay. I think I know where we are.’ (Supergiant Games) This brief exchange and feedback to player movement, in medias res, limits the player’s possible points of attention and establishes The Boxer’s voice and “character” as the reference point for interacting with the game world. Actions, the surrounding world, and gameplay objectives are given meaning and context by being part of a system of intent derived from the significance of his character to the player character (Red) as both a companion and information-giver. The player may not necessarily feel what an individual in Red’s position would feel, but their expository position is aligned with Red’s narrative, and their scope of interaction with the world is intrinsically tied to the “explicit” intent of finding out what happened to The Boxer. Transistor continues to establish a loop between Red’s exploration of the world and the dialogue and narration of The Boxer. In the context of gameplay, player movement functions as the other half of a conversation and brings the player’s control of Red closer to how Red herself (who cannot communicate vocally) might converse with The Boxer gesturally. The Boxer’s conversational narration is scripted to occur as Red moves through specific parts of the world and achieves certain objectives. Significantly, The Boxer will also speak to Red in response to specific behaviours that only occur should the player choose to do them and that don’t necessarily contribute to “progressing” the game in the mechanical sense. There are multiple points where this is possible, but I will draw on two examples to demonstrate. Firstly, The Boxer will have specific reactions to a player who stands idle for too long, or who performs a repetitive action. Jumping repeatedly from platform to platform will trigger several variations of playful and exasperated dialogue from The Boxer (who has, at this point, no choice but to be carried around by Red): [Upon repeatedly jumping between the same platform] ‘Round and round.’ ‘Okay that’s enough.’ ‘I hate you.’ (Supergiant Games) The second is when Red “hums” (an activity initiated by the player by holding down R1 on a PlayStation console). At certain points of play, when making Red hum, The Boxer will chime in and sing the lyrics to the song she is humming. This musical harmonisation helps to articulate a particular kind of intimacy and flow between Red and The Boxer —accentuated by Red’s animation when humming: she is bathed in golden light and holds the Transistor close, swaying side to side, as if embracing or dancing with a lover. This is a playful, exploratory interaction. It technically doesn’t serve any “purpose” in terms of finishing the game—but is an action a player might perform while exploring controls and possibilities of interactivity, in turn exploring what it is to “be” Red in relation to the game world, the story being conveyed, and The Boxer. It delivers a more emotional and affective thematic idea about a relationship that nonetheless relies just as much on mechanical input and output as engaging in movement, exploration, and combat in the game world. It’s a mechanic that provides texture to the experience of inhabiting Red’s identity during play, showcasing a more individual complexity to her story, driven by interactivity. In techniques like this, Transistor directly unifies its method for information-giving, interactivity, progression, and theme into a single design language. To once again nod to Swink and Costikyan, it is a complex, interacting economy or ecosystem of thematic ideas and gameplay structures that guide behaviour and progression forward through the need to achieve a single goal (Costikyan 21), guiding the player towards the game’s “explicit” intent of investment in its “science fiction love story”. Companionship and Collaboration in Journey Journey is regularly praised in many circles of game review and discussion for its powerful, pared-back story conveyed through its exceptional game design. It has won a wide array of awards, including multiple British Academy Games Awards and Game Developer’s Choice Awards, and has been featured in highly regarded international galleries such as the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. Its director, Jenova Chen, articulated that the goal of the game (and thus, in the context of this essay, the intent) was “to create a game where people who interact with each other in an online community can connect at an emotional level, regardless of their gender, age, ethnicity, and social status” (Webber 14). In Journey, the player controls a small robed figure moving through a vast desert—the only choices for movement are to slide gracefully through the sand or to jump into the air by pressing the X button (on a PlayStation console), and gracefully float down to the ground. You cannot attack anything or defend yourself from the elements or hostile beings. Each player will “periodically find another individual in the landscape” (Isbister 121) of similar design to the player and can only communicate with them by experimenting with simple movements, and via short chirping noises. As the landscape itself is vast and unknown, it is what one player referred to as a sense of “reliance on one another” that makes the game so captivating (Isbister 12). Much like The Boxer in Transistor, the other figure in Journey stands out as a reference point and imbues a sense of collaboration and connection that makes the goal to reach the pinprick of light in the distance more meaningful. It is only after the player has finished the game that the screen reveals the other individual is a real person, another player, by displaying their gamer tag. One player, playing the game in 2017 (several years after its original release in 2012), wrote: I went through most of the game by myself, and when I first met my companion, it was right as I walked into the gate transitioning to the snow area. And I was SO happy that there was someone else in this desolate place. I felt like it added so much warmth to the game, so much added value. The companion and I stuck together 100% of the way. When one of us would fall the slightest bit behind, the other would wait for them. I remember saying out loud how I thought that my companion was the best programmed AI that I had ever seen. In the way that he waited for me to catch up, it almost seemed like he thanked me for waiting for him … We were always side-by-side which I was doing to the "AI" for "cinematic-effect". From when I first met him up to the very very end, we were side-by-side. (Peace_maybenot) Other players indicate a similar bond even when their companion is perhaps less competent: I thought my traveller was a crap AI. He kept getting launched by the flying things and was crap at staying behind cover … But I stuck with him because I was like, this is my buddy in the game. Same thing, we were communicating the whole time and I stuck with him. I finish and I see a gamer tag and my mind was blown. That was awesome. (kerode4791) Although there is a definite object of difference in that Transistor is narrated and single-player while Journey is not, there are some defined correlations between the way Supergiant Games and thatgamecompany encourage players to feel a sense of investment and intent aligned with another individual within the game to further thematic intent. Interactive mechanics are designed to allow players a means of playful and gestural communication as an extension of their kinetic interaction with the game; travellers in Journey can chirp and call out to other players—not always for an intrinsic goal but often to express joy, or just to experience and sense of connectivity or emotional warmth. In Transistor, the ability to hum and hear The Boxer’s harmony, and the animation of Red holding the Transistor close as she does so, implying a sense of protectiveness and affection, says more in the context of “play” than a literal declaration of love between the two characters. Graeme Kirkpatrick uses dance as a suitable metaphor for this kind of experience in games, in that both are characterised by a certainty that communication has occurred despite the “eschewal of overt linguistic elements and discursive meanings” (120). There is also a sense of finite temporality in these moments. Unlike scripted actions, or words on a page, they occur within a moment of being that largely belongs to the player and their actions alone. Kirkpatrick describes it as “an inherent ephemerality about this vanishing and that this very transience is somehow essential” (120). This imbuing of a sense of time is important because it implies that even if one were to play the game again, repeating the interaction is impossible. The communication of narrative within these games is not a static form, but an experience that hangs unique at that moment and space of play. Thatgamecompany discussed in their 2017 interviews with Webber, published as part of her essay for the Victoria & Albert’s Video Games: Design/Play/Disrupt exhibition, how by creating and restricting the kind of playful interaction available to players within the world, they could encourage the kind of emotional, collaborative, and thoughtful intent they desired to portray (Webber 14). They articulate how in the development process they prioritised giving the player a variety of responses for even the smallest of actions and how that positive feedback, in turn, encourages play and prevented players from being “bored” (Webber 22). Meanwhile, the team reduced responsiveness for interactions they didn’t want to encourage. Chen describes the approach as “maximising feedback for things you want and minimising it for things you don’t want” (Webber 27). In her essay, Webber writes that Chen describes “a person who enters a virtual world, leaving behind the value system they’ve learned from real life, as like a baby banging their spoon to get attention” (27): initially players could push each other, and when one baby [player] pushed the other baby [player] off the cliff that person died. So, when we tested the gameplay, even our own developers preferred killing each other because of the amount of feedback they would get, whether it’s visual feedback, audio feedback, or social feedback from the players in the room. For quite a while I was disappointed at our own developers’ ethics, but I was able to talk to a child psychologist and she was able to clarify why these people are doing what they are doing. She said, ‘If you want to train a baby not to knock the spoon, you should minimise the feedback. Either just leave them alone, and after a while they’re bored and stop knocking, or give them a spoon that does not make a sound. (27) The developers then made it impossible for players to kill, steal resources from, or even speak to each other. Players were encouraged to stay close to each other using high-feedback action and responsiveness for doing so (Webber 27). By using feedback design techniques to encourage players to behave a certain way to other beings in the world—both by providing and restricting playful interactivity—thatgamecompany encourage a resonance between players and the overarching design intent of the project. Chen’s observations about the behaviour of his team while playing different iterations of the game also support the argument (acknowledged in different perspectives by various scholarship, including Costikyan and Bogost) that in the act of gameplay, real-life personal ethics are to a degree re-prioritised by the interactivity and context of that interactivity in the game world. Intent and the “Actualities of (Game) Existence” Continuing and evolving explorations of “intent” (and other parallel terms) in games through interaction design is of interest for scholars of game studies; it also is an important endeavour when considering influential relationships between games and other digital mediums where user identity is performative or relational to others. This influence was examined from several perspectives in the aforementioned collection Playful Identities: The Ludification of Digital Media Cultures, which also examined “the process of ludification that seems to penetrate every cultural domain” of modern life, including leisure time, work, education, politics, and even warfare (Frissen et al. 9). Such studies affirm the “complex relationship between play, media, and identity in contemporary culture” and are motivated “not only by the dominant role that digital media plays in our present culture but also by the intuition that ‘“play is central … to media experience” (Frissen et al. 10). Undertaking close examinations of specific “playful” design techniques in video games, and how they may factor into the development of intent, can help to develop nuanced lines of questioning about how we engage with “playfulness” in other digital communication platforms in an accessible, comparative way. We continue to exist in a world where “ludification is penetrating the cultural domain”. In the first few months of the global COVID-19 pandemic, Nintendo released Animal Crossing: New Horizons. With an almost global population in lockdown, Animal Crossing became host to professional meetings (Espiritu), weddings (Garst), and significantly, a media channel for brands to promote content and products (Deighton). TikTok, panoramically, is a platform where “playful” user trends— dances, responding to videos, the “Tell Me … Without Telling Me” challenge—occur in the context of an extremely complex algorithm, that while automated, is created by people—and is thus unavoidably embedded with bias (Dias et al.; Noble). This is not to say that game design techniques and broader “playful” design techniques in other digital communication platforms are interchangeable by any measure, or that intent in a game design sense and intent or bias in a commercial sense should be examined through the same lens. Rather that there is a useful, interdisciplinary resource of knowledge that can further illuminate questions we might ask about this state of “ludification” in both the academic and public spheres. We might ask, for example, what would the implications be of introducing an intent design methodology similar to Journey, but using it for commercial gain? Or social activism? Has it already happened? There is a quotation from Nathan Jurgensen’s 2016 essay Fear of Screens (published in The New Inquiry) that often comes to my mind when thinking about interaction design in video games in this way. In his response to Sherry Turkle’s book, Reclaiming Conversation, Jurgensen writes: each time we say “IRL,” “face-to-face,” or “in person” to mean connection without screens, we frame what is “real” or who is a person in terms of their geographic proximity rather than other aspects of closeness — variables like attention, empathy, affect, erotics, all of which can be experienced at a distance. We should not conceptually preclude or discount all the ways intimacy, passion, love, joy, pleasure, closeness, pain, suffering, evil and all the visceral actualities of existence pass through the screen. “Face to face” should mean more than breathing the same air. (Jurgensen) While Jurgensen is not talking about communication in games specifically, there are comparisons to be drawn between his “variables” and “visceral actualities of existence” as the drivers of social meaning-making, and the methodology of games communicating intent and purpose through Swink’s “seemingly arbitrary collection of abstracted variables” (67). When players interact with other characters in a game world (whether they be NPCs or other players), they are inhabiting a shared virtual space, and how designers articulate and present the variables of “closeness”, as Jurgensen defines it, can shape player alignment with the overarching design intent. These design techniques take the place of Jurgensen’s “visceral actualities of existence”. While they may not intrinsically share an overarching purpose, their experiential qualities have the ability to align ethics, priorities, and values between individuals. Interactivity means game design has the potential to facilitate a particular kind of engagement for the player (as demonstrated in Journey) or give opportunities for players to explore a sense of what an emotion might feel like by aligning it with progression or playful activity (as discussed in relation to Transistor). Players may not “feel” exactly what their player-characters do, or care for other characters in the world in the same way a game might encourage them to, but through thoughtful intent design, something of recognition or unity of belief might pass through the screen. References Bogost, Ian. Persuasive Games: The Expressive Power of Video Games. MIT P, 2007. Calleja, Gordon. “Ludic Identities and the Magic Circle.” Playful Identities: The Ludification of Digital Media Cultures. Eds. Valerie Frissen et al. Amsterdam UP, 2015. 211–224. Costikyan, Greg. “I Have No Words & I Must Design: Toward a Critical Vocabulary for Games.” Computer Games and Digital Cultures Conference Proceedings 2002. Ed. Frans Mäyrä. Tampere UP. 9-33. Dias, Avani, et al. “The TikTok Spiral.” ABC News, 26 July 2021. <https://www.abc.net.au/news/2021-07-26/tiktok-algorithm-dangerous-eating-disorder-content-censorship/100277134>. Deighton, Katie. “Animal Crossing Is Emerging as a Media Channel for Brands in Lockdown.” The Drum, 21 Apr. 2020. <https://www.thedrum.com/news/2020/04/21/animal-crossing-emerging-media-channel-brands-lockdown>. Espiritu, Abby. “Japanese Company Attempts to Work Remotely in Animal Crossing: New Horizons.” The Gamer, 29 Mar. 2020. <https://www.thegamer.com/animal-crossing-new-horizons-work-remotely/>. Frissen, Valerie, et al., eds. Playful Identities: The Ludification of Digital Media Cultures. Amsterdam UP, 2015. Garst, Aron. “The Pandemic Canceled Their Wedding. So They Held It in Animal Crossing.” The Washington Post, 2 Apr. 2020. <https://www.washingtonpost.com/video-games/2020/04/02/animal-crossing-wedding-coronavirus/>. Isbister, Katherine. How Games Move Us: Emotion by Design. MIT P, 2016. Journey. thatgamecompany. 2012. Jurgensen, Nathan. “Fear of Screens.” The New Inquiry, 25 Jan. 2016. <https://thenewinquiry.com/fear-of-screens/>. Kasavin, Greg. “Transistor Earns More than 100+ Industry Accolades, Sells More than 600k Copies.” Supergiant Games, 8 Jan. 2015. <https://www.supergiantgames.com/blog/transistor-earns60-industry-accolades-sells-more-than-600k-copies/>. kerode4791. "Wanted to Share My First Experience with the Game, It Was That Awesome.”Reddit, 22 Mar. 2017. <https://www.reddit.com/r/JourneyPS3/comments/60u0am/wanted_to_share_my_f rst_experience_with_the_game/>. Kirkpatrick, Graeme. Aesthetic Theory and the Video Game. Manchester UP, 2011. Noble, Safiya Umoja. Algorithms of Oppression: How Search Engines Reinforce Racism. New York UP, 2018. peace_maybenot. "Wanted to Share My First Experience with the Game, It Was that Awesome” Reddit, 22 Mar. 2017. <https://www.reddit.com/r/JourneyPS3/comments/60u0am/wanted_to_share_my_f rst_experience_with_the_game/>. Petit, Carolyn. “Ghosts in the Machine." Gamespot, 20 May 2014. <https://www.gamespot.com/reviews/transistor-review/1900-6415763/>. Swink, Steve. Game Feel: A Game Designer’s Guide to Virtual Sensation. Amsterdam: Morgan Kaufmann Publishers/Elsevier, 2009. Transistor. Supergiant Games. 2014. Wallace, Kimberley. “The Story behind Supergiant Games’ Transistor.” Gameinformer, 20 May 2021. <https://www.gameinformer.com/2021/05/20/the-story-behind-supergiant-games-transistor>. Webber, Jordan Erica. “The Road to Journey.” Videogames: Design/Play/Disrupt. Eds. Marie Foulston and Kristian Volsing. V&A Publishing, 2018. 14–31.

A common criticism of the rhythm video games genre — including series like Guitar Hero and Rock Band, is that playing musical simulation games is a waste of time when you could be playing an actual guitar and learning a real skill. A more serious criticism of games cultures draws attention to the degree of e-waste they produce. E-waste or electronic waste includes mobiles phones, computers, televisions and other electronic devices, containing toxic chemicals and metals whose landfill, recycling and salvaging all produce distinct environmental and social problems. The e-waste produced by games like Guitar Hero is obvious in the regular flow of merchandise transforming computer and video games stores into simulation music stores, filled with replica guitars, drum kits, microphones and other products whose half-lives are short and whose obsolescence is anticipated in the annual cycles of consumption and disposal. This paper explores the connection between e-waste and obsolescence in the games industry, and argues for the further consideration of consumers as part of the solution to the problem of e-waste. It uses a case study of the PC digital distribution software platform, Steam, to suggest that the digital distribution of games may offer an alternative model to market driven software and hardware obsolescence, and more generally, that such software platforms might be a place to support cultures of consumption that delay rather than promote hardware obsolescence and its inevitability as e-waste. The question is whether there exists a potential for digital distribution to be a means of not only eliminating the need to physically transport commodities (its current 'green' benefit), but also for supporting consumer practices that further reduce e-waste. The games industry relies on a rapid production and innovation cycle, one that actively enforces hardware obsolescence. Current video game consoles, including the PlayStation 3, the Xbox 360 and Nintendo Wii, are the seventh generation of home gaming consoles to appear within forty years, and each generation is accompanied by an immense international transportation of games hardware, software (in various storage formats) and peripherals. Obsolescence also occurs at the software or content level and is significant because the games industry as a creative industry is dependent on the extensive management of multiple intellectual properties. The computing and video games software industry operates a close partnership with the hardware industry, and as such, software obsolescence directly contributes to hardware obsolescence. The obsolescence of content and the redundancy of the methods of policing its scarcity in the marketplace has been accelerated and altered by the processes of disintermediation with a range of outcomes (Flew). The music industry is perhaps the most advanced in terms of disintermediation with digital distribution at the center of the conflict between the legitimate and unauthorised access to intellectual property. This points to one issue with the hypothesis that digital distribution can lead to a reduction in hardware obsolescence, as the marketplace leader and key online distributor of music, Apple, is also the major producer of new media technologies and devices that are the paragon of stylistic obsolescence. Stylistic obsolescence, in which fashion changes products across seasons of consumption, has long been observed as the dominant form of scaled industrial innovation (Slade). Stylistic obsolescence is differentiated from mechanical or technological obsolescence as the deliberate supersedence of products by more advanced designs, better production techniques and other minor innovations. The line between the stylistic and technological obsolescence is not always clear, especially as reduced durability has become a powerful market strategy (Fitzpatrick). This occurs where the design of technologies is subsumed within the discourses of manufacturing, consumption and the logic of planned obsolescence in which the product or parts are intended to fail, degrade or under perform over time. It is especially the case with signature new media technologies such as laptop computers, mobile phones and portable games devices. Gamers are as guilty as other consumer groups in contributing to e-waste as participants in the industry's cycles of planned obsolescence, but some of them complicate discussions over the future of obsolescence and e-waste. Many gamers actively work to forestall the obsolescence of their games: they invest time in the play of older games (“retrogaming”) they donate labor and creative energy to the production of user-generated content as a means of sustaining involvement in gaming communities; and they produce entirely new game experiences for other users, based on existing software and hardware modifications known as 'mods'. With Guitar Hero and other 'rhythm' games it would be easy to argue that the hardware components of this genre have only one future: as waste. Alternatively, we could consider the actual lifespan of these objects (including their impact as e-waste) and the roles they play in the performances and practices of communities of gamers. For example, the Elmo Guitar Hero controller mod, the Tesla coil Guitar Hero controller interface, the Rock Band Speak n' Spellbinder mashup, the multiple and almost sacrilegious Fender guitar hero mods, the Guitar Hero Portable Turntable Mod and MAKE magazine's Trumpet Hero all indicate a significant diversity of user innovation, community formation and individual investment in the post-retail life of computer and video game hardware. Obsolescence is not just a problem for the games industry but for the computing and electronics industries more broadly as direct contributors to the social and environmental cost of electrical waste and obsolete electrical equipment. Planned obsolescence has long been the experience of gamers and computer users, as the basis of a utopian mythology of upgrades (Dovey and Kennedy). For PC users the upgrade pathway is traversed by the consumption of further hardware and software post initial purchase in a cycle of endless consumption, acquisition and waste (as older parts are replaced and eventually discarded). The accumulation and disposal of these cultural artefacts does not devalue or accrue in space or time at the same rate (Straw) and many users will persist for years, gradually upgrading and delaying obsolescence and even perpetuate the circulation of older cultural commodities. Flea markets and secondhand fairs are popular sites for the purchase of new, recent, old, and recycled computer hardware, and peripherals. Such practices and parallel markets support the strategies of 'making do' described by De Certeau, but they also continue the cycle of upgrade and obsolescence, and they are still consumed as part of the promise of the 'new', and the desire of a purchase that will finally 'fix' the users' computer in a state of completion (29). The planned obsolescence of new media technologies is common, but its success is mixed; for example, support for Microsoft's operating system Windows XP was officially withdrawn in April 2009 (Robinson), but due to the popularity in low cost PC 'netbooks' outfitted with an optimised XP operating system and a less than enthusiastic response to the 'next generation' Windows Vista, XP continues to be popular. Digital Distribution: A Solution? Gamers may be able to reduce the accumulation of e-waste by supporting the disintermediation of the games retail sector by means of online distribution. Disintermediation is the establishment of a direct relationship between the creators of content and their consumers through products and services offered by content producers (Flew 201). The move to digital distribution has already begun to reduce the need to physically handle commodities, but this currently signals only further support of planned, stylistic and technological obsolescence, increasing the rate at which the commodities for recording, storing, distributing and exhibiting digital content become e-waste. Digital distribution is sometimes overlooked as a potential means for promoting communities of user practice dedicated to e-waste reduction, at the same time it is actively employed to reduce the potential for the unregulated appropriation of content and restrict post-purchase sales through Digital Rights Management (DRM) technologies. Distributors like Amazon.com continue to pursue commercial opportunities in linking the user to digital distribution of content via exclusive hardware and software technologies. The Amazon e-book reader, the Kindle, operates via a proprietary mobile network using a commercially run version of the wireless 3G protocols. The e-book reader is heavily encrypted with Digital Rights Management (DRM) technologies and exclusive digital book formats designed to enforce current copyright restrictions and eliminate second-hand sales, lending, and further post-purchase distribution. The success of this mode of distribution is connected to Amazon's ability to tap both the mainstream market and the consumer demand for the less-than-popular; those books, movies, music and television series that may not have been 'hits' at the time of release. The desire to revisit forgotten niches, such as B-sides, comics, books, and older video games, suggests Chris Anderson, linked with so-called “long tail” economics. Recently Webb has queried the economic impact of the Long Tail as a business strategy, but does not deny the underlying dynamics, which suggest that content does not obsolesce in any straightforward way. Niche markets for older content are nourished by participatory cultures and Web 2.0 style online services. A good example of the Long Tail phenomenon is the recent case of the 1971 book A Lion Called Christian, by Anthony Burke and John Rendall, republished after the author's film of a visit to a resettled Christian in Africa was popularised on YouTube in 2008. Anderson's Long Tail theory suggests that over time a large number of items, each with unique rather than mass histories, will be subsumed as part of a larger community of consumers, including fans, collectors and everyday users with a long term interest in their use and preservation. If digital distribution platforms can reduce e-waste, they can perhaps be fostered by to ensuring digital consumers have access to morally and ethically aware consumer decisions, but also that they enjoy traditional consumer freedoms, such as the right to sell on and change or modify their property. For it is not only the fixation on the 'next generation' that contributes to obsolescence, but also technologies like DRM systems that discourage second hand sales and restrict modification. The legislative upgrades, patches and amendments to copyright law that have attempted to maintain the law's effectiveness in competing with peer-to-peer networks have supported DRM and other intellectual property enforcement technologies, despite the difficulties that owners of intellectual property have encountered with the effectiveness of DRM systems (Moore, Creative). The games industry continues to experiment with DRM, however, this industry also stands out as one of the few to have significantly incorporated the user within the official modes of production (Moore, Commonising). Is the games industry capable (or willing) of supporting a digital delivery system that attempts to minimise or even reverse software and hardware obsolescence? We can try to answer this question by looking in detail at the biggest digital distributor of PC games, Steam. Steam Figure 1: The Steam Application user interface retail section Steam is a digital distribution system designed for the Microsoft Windows operating system and operated by American video game development company and publisher, Valve Corporation. Steam combines online games retail, DRM technologies and internet-based distribution services with social networking and multiplayer features (in-game voice and text chat, user profiles, etc) and direct support for major games publishers, independent producers, and communities of user-contributors (modders). Steam, like the iTunes games store, Xbox Live and other digital distributors, provides consumers with direct digital downloads of new, recent and classic titles that can be accessed remotely by the user from any (internet equipped) location. Steam was first packaged with the physical distribution of Half Life 2 in 2004, and the platform's eventual popularity is tied to the success of that game franchise. Steam was not an optional component of the game's installation and many gamers protested in various online forums, while the platform was treated with suspicion by the global PC games press. It did not help that Steam was at launch everything that gamers take objection to: a persistent and initially 'buggy' piece of software that sits in the PC's operating system and occupies limited memory resources at the cost of hardware performance. Regular updates to the Steam software platform introduced social network features just as mainstream sites like MySpace and Facebook were emerging, and its popularity has undergone rapid subsequent growth. Steam now eclipses competitors with more than 20 million user accounts (Leahy) and Valve Corporation makes it publicly known that Steam collects large amounts of data about its users. This information is available via the public player profile in the community section of the Steam application. It includes the average number of hours the user plays per week, and can even indicate the difficulty the user has in navigating game obstacles. Valve reports on the number of users on Steam every two hours via its web site, with a population on average between one and two million simultaneous users (Valve, Steam). We know these users’ hardware profiles because Valve Corporation makes the results of its surveillance public knowledge via the Steam Hardware Survey. Valve’s hardware survey itself conceptualises obsolescence in two ways. First, it uses the results to define the 'cutting edge' of PC technologies and publishing the standards of its own high end production hardware on the companies blog. Second, the effect of the Survey is to subsequently define obsolescent hardware: for example, in the Survey results for April 2009, we can see that the slight majority of users maintain computers with two central processing units while a significant proportion (almost one third) of users still maintained much older PCs with a single CPU. Both effects of the Survey appear to be well understood by Valve: the Steam Hardware Survey automatically collects information about the community's computer hardware configurations and presents an aggregate picture of the stats on our web site. The survey helps us make better engineering and gameplay decisions, because it makes sure we're targeting machines our customers actually use, rather than measuring only against the hardware we've got in the office. We often get asked about the configuration of the machines we build around the office to do both game and Steam development. We also tend to turn over machines in the office pretty rapidly, at roughly every 18 months. (Valve, Team Fortress) Valve’s support of older hardware might counter perceptions that older PCs have no use and begins to reverse decades of opinion regarding planned and stylistic obsolescence in the PC hardware and software industries. Equally significant to the extension of the lives of older PCs is Steam's support for mods and its promotion of user generated content. By providing software for mod creation and distribution, Steam maximises what Postigo calls the development potential of fan-programmers. One of the 'payoffs' in the information/access exchange for the user with Steam is the degree to which Valve's End-User Licence Agreement (EULA) permits individuals and communities of 'modders' to appropriate its proprietary game content for use in the creation of new games and games materials for redistribution via Steam. These mods extend the play of the older games, by requiring their purchase via Steam in order for the individual user to participate in the modded experience. If Steam is able to encourage this kind of appropriation and community support for older content, then the potential exists for it to support cultures of consumption and practice of use that collaboratively maintain, extend, and prolong the life and use of games. Further, Steam incorporates the insights of “long tail” economics in a purely digital distribution model, in which the obsolescence of 'non-hit' game titles can be dramatically overturned. Published in November 2007, Unreal Tournament 3 (UT3) by Epic Games, was unappreciated in a market saturated with games in the first-person shooter genre. Epic republished UT3 on Steam 18 months later, making the game available to play for free for one weekend, followed by discounted access to new content. The 2000 per cent increase in players over the game's 'free' trial weekend, has translated into enough sales of the game for Epic to no longer consider the release a commercial failure: It’s an incredible precedent to set: making a game a success almost 18 months after a poor launch. It’s something that could only have happened now, and with a system like Steam...Something that silently updates a purchase with patches and extra content automatically, so you don’t have to make the decision to seek out some exciting new feature: it’s just there anyway. Something that, if you don’t already own it, advertises that game to you at an agreeably reduced price whenever it loads. Something that enjoys a vast community who are in turn plugged into a sea of smaller relevant communities. It’s incredibly sinister. It’s also incredibly exciting... (Meer) Clearly concerns exist about Steam's user privacy policy, but this also invites us to the think about the economic relationship between gamers and games companies as it is reconfigured through the private contractual relationship established by the EULA which accompanies the digital distribution model. The games industry has established contractual and licensing arrangements with its consumer base in order to support and reincorporate emerging trends in user generated cultures and other cultural formations within its official modes of production (Moore, "Commonising"). When we consider that Valve gets to tax sales of its virtual goods and can further sell the information farmed from its users to hardware manufacturers, it is reasonable to consider the relationship between the corporation and its gamers as exploitative. Gabe Newell, the Valve co-founder and managing director, conversely believes that people are willing to give up personal information if they feel it is being used to get better services (Leahy). If that sentiment is correct then consumers may be willing to further trade for services that can reduce obsolescence and begin to address the problems of e-waste from the ground up. Conclusion Clearly, there is a potential for digital distribution to be a means of not only eliminating the need to physically transport commodities but also supporting consumer practices that further reduce e-waste. For an industry where only a small proportion of the games made break even, the successful relaunch of older games content indicates Steam's capacity to ameliorate software obsolescence. Digital distribution extends the use of commercially released games by providing disintermediated access to older and user-generated content. For Valve, this occurs within a network of exchange as access to user-generated content, social networking services, and support for the organisation and coordination of communities of gamers is traded for user-information and repeat business. Evidence for whether this will actively translate to an equivalent decrease in the obsolescence of game hardware might be observed with indicators like the Steam Hardware Survey in the future. The degree of potential offered by digital distribution is disrupted by a range of technical, commercial and legal hurdles, primary of which is the deployment of DRM, as part of a range of techniques designed to limit consumer behaviour post purchase. While intervention in the form of legislation and radical change to the insidious nature of electronics production is crucial in order to achieve long term reduction in e-waste, the user is currently considered only in terms of 'ethical' consumption and ultimately divested of responsibility through participation in corporate, state and civil recycling and e-waste management operations. The message is either 'careful what you purchase' or 'careful how you throw it away' and, like DRM, ignores the connections between product, producer and user and the consumer support for environmentally, ethically and socially positive production, distribrution, disposal and recycling. This article, has adopted a different strategy, one that sees digital distribution platforms like Steam, as capable, if not currently active, in supporting community practices that should be seriously considered in conjunction with a range of approaches to the challenge of obsolescence and e-waste. References Anderson, Chris. "The Long Tail." Wired Magazine 12. 10 (2004). 20 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/12.10/tail.html›. De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: U of California P, 1984. Dovey, Jon, and Helen Kennedy. Game Cultures: Computer Games as New Media. London: Open University Press,2006. Fitzpatrick, Kathleen. The Anxiety of Obsolescence. Nashville: Vanderbilt UP, 2008. Flew, Terry. New Media: An Introduction. South Melbourne: Oxford UP, 2008. Leahy, Brian. "Live Blog: DICE 2009 Keynote - Gabe Newell, Valve Software." The Feed. G4TV 18 Feb. 2009. 16 Apr. 2009 ‹http://g4tv.com/thefeed/blog/post/693342/Live-Blog-DICE-2009-Keynote-–-Gabe-Newell-Valve-Software.html›. Meer, Alec. "Unreal Tournament 3 and the New Lazarus Effect." Rock, Paper, Shotgun 16 Mar. 2009. 24 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.rockpapershotgun.com/2009/03/16/unreal-tournament-3-and-the-new-lazarus-effect/›.Moore, Christopher. "Commonising the Enclosure: Online Games and Reforming Intellectual Property Regimes." Australian Journal of Emerging Technologies and Society 3. 2, (2005). 12 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.swin.edu.au/sbs/ajets/journal/issue5-V3N2/abstract_moore.htm›. Moore, Christopher. "Creative Choices: Changes to Australian Copyright Law and the Future of the Public Domain." Media International Australia 114 (Feb. 2005): 71–83. Postigo, Hector. "Of Mods and Modders: Chasing Down the Value of Fan-Based Digital Game Modification." Games and Culture 2 (2007): 300-13. Robinson, Daniel. "Windows XP Support Runs Out Next Week." PC Business Authority 8 Apr. 2009. 16 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.pcauthority.com.au/News/142013,windows-xp-support-runs-out-next-week.aspx›. Straw, Will. "Exhausted Commodities: The Material Culture of Music." Canadian Journal of Communication 25.1 (2000): 175. Slade, Giles. Made to Break: Technology and Obsolescence in America. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 2006. Valve. "Steam and Game Stats." 26 Apr. 2009 ‹http://store.steampowered.com/stats/›. Valve. "Team Fortress 2: The Scout Update." Steam Marketing Message 20 Feb. 2009. 12 Apr. 2009 ‹http://storefront.steampowered.com/Steam/Marketing/message/2269/›. Webb, Richard. "Online Shopping and the Harry Potter Effect." New Scientist 2687 (2008): 52-55. 16 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.newscientist.com/article/mg20026873.300-online-shopping-and-the-harry-potter-effect.html?page=2›. With thanks to Dr Nicola Evans and Dr Frances Steel for their feedback and comments on drafts of this paper.