When Jones’ post first appeared I scrawled some notes in a little notebook towards an intended response, but the me of now is having trouble working out what the me of June was going for at the time, so I’m mostly going to wing it. For a bit of context, Jones very much comes from an art background, having been involved with pretty much everything considered (or at least argued) to be art, from acting, music, writing, painting, comics, a stint in videogames, and a few others I’m probably forgetting. He also ran a small art gallery for a few years, which on top of all the rest means a few things: he drinks a lot, is prone to cynicism, and usually knows what he’s talking about. As such, I feel confident he’ll correct anything I might get wrong below, probably while demanding I buy him a drink and making fun of my shoes.

The essence of Jones’ take on the much-sought after bade of being considered proper Art (pronounced “Awt”, for those reading aloud at home) is it’s a lot of crap, a popularity contest each new medium is forced to enter in turn. He argues that as videogame creators (or television people, or comics people, or purveyors of any of the “new” media) we should take the stance of not wanting to join any club that would have us as a member, focusing instead of producing the best work we can and placing craftsmanship over the approval of old men in universities with embarrassing beards.

I agree except where I don’t, really. His points on Craft and Craftsmanship strike a chord with me, particularly as I discover more and more that as much as I love discussing design theories and practice, I’d much rather just do the job. As for not needing to be art… I don’t know. On one hand, I’m a big fan of not depending on someone else saying I’m something to consider myself that something, but on the other, I’m not on the front lines of (or even involved with) game academia like Brenda Brathwaite, Ian Schreiber, or Tracy Fullerton. I’ve never been in a position where my work and passions might be professionally marginalized because they weren’t considered a valid art form by the powers that be, never had to fight to prove that what I was doing mattered. It’d be nice if games didn’t need status to prove they were worth the sort of in-depth exploration those mentioned and others like them are committed to, but if a label is what it takes, then yeah, I think we need the label. At least for now. There’s also the part of me that doesn’t want to be told my medium and I can’t sit at the Adult’s Table, but that’s harder to back up with links to smart people, so.

At any rate, read Jones’ piece if you haven’t already. Aside from any arguments over artistic validity, his points on the importance of good craftsmanship above all else are well worth it.

*Friend James claims he chimed in as well, but as I can’t find his comments anywhere, let’s just assume he’s lying.

Unfortunately for those waiting and watching for such a game to appear, it’s not going to. There will be no Citizen Kane of videogames, no one game that suddenly vindicates gaming as an art form in the same way as Orson Wells’ masterpiece purportedly did, because that’s not the way the world works any more, assuming it ever did in the first place. Legitimacy doesn’t come from one person in a field doing one thing right; it comes from movements, from consistency, from progress across the board creating a new standard for future work to be held against. We’re spending all our time looking for one very special tree, when we should be paying attention to the overall picture of what’s going on with the forest.

As someone who works in games, I find the idea of waiting around for one wonderful game to solve the industry’s concerns with being taken seriously to be particularly grating for a number of reasons, the biggest being that it smacks of wanting someone to come along and do it for me. I’ve seen the question of when videogames’ Citizen Kane will come along put to the likes of Peter Molyneux, Ken Levine, Warren Spector, and a dozen others, and I can’t help but wonder if any of them ever felt a bit insulted at being relegated to John the Baptist status, forever doomed to be remembered best for paving someone else’s way. To ask the question implies not only that such a game or event hasn’t already happened yet, waiting for some future huddle of thoughtful types to point it out as the turning point, but that when it does appear it’ll do so with bells on and a note around its neck declaring its importance. It is, really, a stupid thing to ask of anyone, so loaded down with assumptions and deep misunderstandings on the nature of games and art as a whole that asking it should make you feel a bit ashamed of yourself. Why should games evolve the same way film did, and why should we expect them to? Why would you assume there aren’t already games deserving to be called art, with all the good and bad that carries with it? Why are we waiting for one great turning point, when games make so many small and important ones each year? And more important than any of those questions, why oh why do we as a medium need any one else to tell us how smart and pretty we are?

For all the tremendous leaps and bounds videogames have made since first appearing, our medium’s story is ultimately one of evolution, not revolution. The incredible strides made towards more and more meaningful and engrossing experiences are the results of countless iterations big and small to discover what works and cast aside what doesn’t. Videogames are a medium unlike anything the world has ever seen, with greater potential and challenges than nearly any other art form can muster. Instead of waiting to be taken seriously by the world at large like a child squirming for permission to sit at the adult’s table, we should claim the art form status that’s rightfully ours, even if we aren’t entirely convinced we deserve it yet. The first step to being a grown up is calling yourself one – sooner or later, the rest of the world will come around.

The feeling of living inside a gigantic, beautifully complex machine of interlocking parts and the dizzy sense of scale that comes with it is pretty much how I feel every time I try to wrap my head around the thinking behind the level design in, say, Mario Galaxy.

What sort of touches? Houser talks at length about main character Niko’s cellphone, and how it’s evolved from a way of getting new missions in previous games to become a significant means of interacting with the game. As you encounter other characters in the game, you can add their names and numbers to your phone’s address book. While they’ll still call you for missions and such, the twist here is that you can call them whenever you like, and even arrange to hang out with them. So when not on a mission or just wandering around to take in the scenery, you can call up your friends and hit the bars for drinks, darts, bowling, and more. The more you hang out, the better your relationship with them becomes, and the more they’ll help you out with free cab rides, access to weapons, and more.

Even more interesting is something Houser touches on for just a moment before quickly changing the subject – GTA IV is going to have comedy clubs you can go to, either alone or with friends. While details currently amount to pretty much that sentence, the potential is incredible. What else could be hiding out there?

Between that question and the promised social interaction from the interview (and everything else the game going for it), I’m sold. While there’s still a chance of ending up disappointed, it sounds like Rockstar have finally created a character with as much potential as the city around him. And that’s something worth showing up for.

The trouble is, I just can’t decide how I feel about all of it.

But then, I’ve always had mixed feeling about the GTA series, or at least the installments from III on. Rockstar’s achievements with the games are undeniable, with each new game expanding upon their idea of a living, breathing city, full of people going about their business, cars on the streets, and even weather. Grand Theft Auto III: San Andreas took things even further, giving you most of a fictionalized state of California to play around in with cities and towns divided by large expanses of wilderness that often held its own surprises. And while it’s something I’ve enjoyed dabbling with before (my fondest memory of the series is still playing San Andreas at Will’s house and discovering that not only could I steal a train, I could run it off the tracks), the longer form of the game has never quite clicked with me. Some of the problem is down to the way it’s built – targeting in the series has always been a joke, and San Andreas took the simulation aspect way too far by tasking you with caring for your character’s overall fitness and keeping him fed. These issues and more are said to be addressed in IV, which makes me happy, but still isn’t quite enough to seal the deal. Ultimately, my problem with the games isn’t in how I move through them, but who I am in them.

I touched on this before in talking about my issues with Assassin’s Creed, but in the case of Grand Theft Auto, the originator of open world sandbox games as a genre, its even more true. For all there is to see in the world, my ability to interact with it is almost completely limited to hurting people. This was particularly true of Grand Theft Auto III, and while Vice City and San Andreas expanded on the sort of things you could do in their world, they were almost always rooted in your character being a criminal with no hope of redemption. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing – Grand Theft Auto’s intentions are right there in the name, after all, and I don’t think anybody is foolish enough to go in to one of the games expecting to play a saint. For me personally, though, the problem appears in the contrast between the free-form nature of the game and my severely limited options for playing it. Rockstar have proven themselves capable of creating beautiful worlds for players to explore, cities that live and breathe in a way few other games can match. For them to constantly cast me as a walking cancer cell within them just feels like a complete waste of potential.

I’ve tried each of the GTA games so far, and each one has been sold or given away after a few hours of playing. Partly because of the control issues mentioned above, but largely because I just get tired of hurting people for no real reason. Killing sprees just aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, it turns out, and I inevitably find myself wanting to contribute to the world around me in some way beyond stealing its cars or knocking down its census numbers. That said, GTAIV is an incredible opportunity for the series, with the power of then new hardware it runs on and the time Rockstar have put into it creating the potential for a heretofore unknown level of player freedom. The screenshots and videos of the game so far have been stunning, as have the details on gameplay and the multiplayer aspects. I know several people here in New York who are going to spend their first hour in the game trying to find the Liberty City version of their home or work. If they’ve found room in all that wonder to create a character I don’t mind being, then the game will truly stand apart from its predecessors. I have sixty dollars set aside that could go towards pre-ordering it or picking up something else, and I’m still waiting to find out.

There’s a slight problem, of course: I have no ability when it comes to creating art assets and am pretty much useless at programming. The former I have friends I can guilt into helping with, and the latter I intend to start teaching myself on the weekends, but that doesn’t solve the immediate problem of wanting to start this erm, immediately. The solution didn’t hit me until this morning while I was out running, and it was so obvious I nearly crashed into some old lady who was just out minding her own business, oblivious to the risk of idiot game designers careening towards her: I can create rule sets. Not all games need art or code to run, nor do they need to exist on a computer screen.

So what am I playing? Smaller games, mostly, or at least games I can play in smaller chunks. Games like:

No More Heroes
While one of the longer games I’m playing at the moment, No More Heroes is perfect for tackling in small chunks. As Travis Touchdown, otaku with a heart of… something and a beam sword won off the internet, there are eleven professional killers standing between you and being the top-ranked assassin in the world.

Which turns out be perfect for spending a couple of hours with here and there. In about an hour, I can jump into the game, spend some time getting together the money necessary to go after my next target by performing odd jobs for a man who insists on reminding me of the coconut’s godliness, tool around the surreal landscape of Santa Destroy, and still have time to brutally kill the next whackjob in line after an epic, occasionally earth-shattering battle. No More Heroes rewards both long and short form play, perfectly happy to have you for as long as you can spare. I’m ranked number four at the moment, having just killed some sort of magician guy in the middle of his act, and am now a bit down at the idea of running out of such incredibly unique freaks of nature to laser sword into little bits. There’s always hard mode, I suppose.

Rock Band
Rock Band has effected my gaming habits like nothing else since Animal Crossing: Wild World (and both Brain Ages, though for not nearly as long) – I play it every day, for at least twenty minutes a day, and usually first thing in the morning. Looking to replace your morning cup of coffee? You could do worse than a plastic guitar and ‘When You Were Young’ by the Killers.

And there’s more to it than that. My girlfriend and I have a standing date to play as our band Kara & Her Special Destiny in World Tour mode, despite her having that whole “studying for med school” thing looming over every bit of her free time (we’re now in the Hall of Fame, thankyewverymuch). Two weeks ago, in the name of our band moving past the fan cap of 260,000 for playing on Medium, I retaught myself how to play the guitar to make finally breaking through into the Hard difficulty level possible. Nothing in Guitar Hero 1 or 2 inspired the same push, but then, nothing in those games had the chance to play in Tokyo as the carrot to balance out the stick of introducing that orange button. Most importantly, though, is how easy Harmonix have made it to play every day – in twenty minutes I can play four or five songs, waking myself up while essentially learning how to play the game all over again. In two hours on a Saturday, Kara & Her Special Destiny can blaze across the country and end up on Europe’s door step. It’s all about creating as much of a player friendly experience as possible: how I progress and the challenges I take on are almost entirely up to me, making Rock Band one of the most freeing experiences to be found in games.

Team Fortress 2
TF2 continues to enthrall for many reasons, chief of which being it’s still one of the only multiplayer games where I don’t feel ostracized for not dedicating every waking moment of the last five years to the fine art of the headshot. It’s still the premiere team experience, still the one game I’ve been apart of where good communication will win out over a team of experienced but uncooperative players almost every time.

I’ve already talked at length about much of what works with TF2, and believe me, I could go on. Suffice to say that the game has delivered on the greatest promise of its design – while the Pyro is still my first choice for who to play as, the last few months have seen me cozying up to the Soldier in a big way. His slow, methodical pace, the swiss army knife of destruction that is his bazooka, and his ability to switch between offensive tank and rocket firing turret make him an excellent first step of the comfort zone I so often establish in games. More than this, though, is how TF2 lacks any trace of the aforementioned disappointment games, largely because it’s exactly what it says it is. It never claims any of the realism or moral dilemma that other games advertise and never quite deliver on, it doesn’t sell itself as the next leap forward in anything in particular. It’s just a way to play with friends. Granted, it’s one of the most fun, most well-balanced, and most insanely addictive ways to do so, but it’s happy being just that. And more and more often, that’s all I really want.

Call of Duty 4
And the CoD 4, the game I never expected anything from only to get nearly everything I wanted. I just finished plaything through it again for the second time a week or so ago, and it’s every bit as thrilling and fun as I remembered. Great as it is to open up on the enemy with an airborne howitzer, the real appeal is less the gameplay and more it’s bite-sized nature.

Everything about CoD 4 is built to take as you want it. Missions are peppered with generous checkpoints, saving your progress every few minutes at natural lulls in the action. Missions themselves, while made up of intense, edge-of-your-seat firefights, are only fifteen to thirty minutes long, the perfect length of time for blowing off steam between getting home from work and dinner. I haven’t spent much time with the multiplayer (no flamethrowers = FAIL), but by all accounts it’s every bit as good – and possibly better – than the single player campaign. CoD 4 was clearly built from the ground up for all kinds of players, which speaks to great design in and of itself, but more importantly it was built with players with realistic schedules and free time in mind.So what are the trends here? Short games, or at least short play times, as mentioned before. Games that are happy to be games first, giving me the freedom to play how and when I want to. Strong designs that maintain their focus rather than muddying things up with good ideas half-realized. Welcoming experiences built with the understanding that all kinds of people games, and the more accessible you make your design the more of them will come your way. All things to mull over, and possibly even expound upon next week.

I don’t have a lot of time for playing games. Sure, there’s the daily rides on the Q to and from work with Professor Layton and the Curious Village for company on the DS, but the little bit of time I’m home Monday through Friday usually finds itself split between little things like eating, sleeping, actually seeing the girlfriend and writing. It’s okay, I tell myself, there’s always the weekend. Only then the weekend, that little oasis of free time, arrives, and I have no idea what I want to play.

And it’s not like I’m hurting for options. I own many, many games, spread across six platforms (seven, counting the computer and the near-limitless possibilities it opens up), many of which I’ve yet to beat and a few I’ve owned for months and haven’t even tried yet. Others I’ve dabbled with, playing for maybe an hour or so without ever going back. It’s not their fault, not really – I’m just looking for something they don’t offer. Not that I know what that something is, of course. Some amorphous quality, some random handful of gameplay elements that, when combined just so, will produce the experience I’m after. Not exactly the sort of thing you’re going to find on the back of a box at GameStop, yeah?

This is hardly a new thing with me. I go through similar phases with music, comics, movies, etc. – the stuff I have just isn’t doing it any more, and I need some shiny new thing to appear and hit all the necessary buttons. Something always turns up: some amazing new record or the exactly right song about girls, a new volume of Scott Pilgrim or a properly dumb movie like B13 to scratch the itch for something new for a while. The same is usually true for games: last Fall was particularly good for my raccoon-like personality, with a bounty of games doing new or otherwise outstanding things for my entertainment. Only now I’ve played (and mostly finished) them, and in hindsight have come to realize something: it’s not the same. With music, comics, and all of that, it usually doesn’t take much to satisfy me for a while. With games, though, the effect isn’t nearly as pure – there’s almost always a bit of lingering frustration a bit here or there that could have been shored up more, some second-guessing of design decisions or wondering what a certain part would be like if they done it a little differently instead. And it’s all my fault.

Oh, I didn’t cop to it at first, deciding instead to blame the traditional post-Xmas shallow release schedule. Only that hasn’t been the case at all – since the start of the year Burnout Paradise, No More Heroes, Endless Ocean, the new Advance Wars and the aforementioned Professor Layton have all been released, and Super Smash Bros. Brawl arrives this Sunday. It wasn’t until this past weekend, while going back to play the original Halo of all things that I let the full truth of it hit me – by entering the games industry and becoming a designer, I had damned myself to never fully enjoy a game again. Oh, I still dearly love them, and love playing them, but the more I learn and the further I progress, the more I can’t help but see the inner workings of any game* I play. It’s like knowing how sausages are made and never being able to look at the things the same way again.

But maybe that’s okay. Game Design idol and hero of the people Warren Spector has written at length about his experience with the same frustrations, and how he turns them into fuel for his creative process. Instead of just griping, he takes the “why didn’t they do this instead of that?” moment and, y’know, makes a game what this happens instead of that. It’s a driving force I’ve noticed in my own design processes (and part of that whole “paths not taken” thing from yesterday’s post) – so many of the things I try to accomplish on a given project come form wanting a more elegant solution to a problem I had with another game. It might not be apparent to anybody but me, but a lot of the games I’ve worked on (and particularly the ones I’m working on now that I can’t so much talk about here) include a bunch of little touches like that, attempts at righting some wrong encountered elsewhere. While part of it no doubt comes from some sort of petty sense of pride at solving someone else’s problems, a lot of it is just wanting something better.

In a piece for The Escapist, Brenda Brathwaite has a quote from designer Ian Schreiber where he not only admits to enjoying designing games more than playing them, but suggests it might be a defining characteristic of good designers. I can’t help but agree – while I think a love of playing games is important to the job, and playing as many games as possible is a vital way for designers to keep adding to their personal knowledge base, I think you have to love making the things more. As Brathwaite points out in her article, game design is not only a game unto itself, in many ways it’s a more satisfying experience than sitting down with a controller in your hand. In the same way that stressing over work, bills, family, and life in general is one of the many things that makes us long for a good game to act as an interactive release valve, frustration with games themselves is one of the things that pushes me into making them. If that something I want from games doesn’t exist, if I can’t even say plainly what is is, then I’m just going to have to build it; piece by piece, solution by solution, a little at a time over the course of everything I work on. All in all, there are worse dooms.

*Other than Portal, that is. I’m perfectly happy believing it’s made of magic.

So where are the cover versions of games? I’m not talking about remakes – those are a dime a dozen, clogging smaller game channels like the 360’s Live Arcade with scrolling shooters that are more xeroxes than new works – or games built on mechanics first proven by another title, I mean actually covering an older game, building it from the ground up as shot through your own personal filters. Take, for instance, the difference between the original version of ‘Walk Away Renee’ by the Left Banke and this cover by Billy Bragg. As amazing as the original’s teen romance gone wrong is, the cover personalizes it, exploring the same territory through Bragg’s particular brand of urban folk/heartbroken city kid storytelling. It’s not a remake or standing on the Four Tops’ collective shoulders; the song is its own creature, every bit as powerful but for different reasons. So why not take the same approach to games?

There are plenty of obvious reasons why it’s not very practical – games are hard to make, for one, typically taking longer and costing more to produce than Ted Leo blending ‘Since U Been Gone’ and ‘Maps’ to fantastic effect. It’s also a young medium, compared to the likes of music, and very much still fighting for cultural acceptance and significance while still lacking a clear idea of where its boundaries are. Why look back where there’s still so much new to explore?

Because of the paths not taken by the original designers. Because of the chance to learn from their work by breaking these games down to their component pieces to see how they work. Because it’s fun. And with the resurgence of smaller, individually developed games on the PC (such as experimental-game-a-month developer and winner of the Seamus McNally prize at IGF this year Petri Purho), it’s much more of a realistic notion than you might think. Imagine Super Mario Bros. covered by the kids at thatgamecompany, or a puzzle game like Tetris or Bejeweled as seen through the eyes of the bunch at the Kokoromi Collective. It’s the sort of thing that fills me with with the burning need to make something and my own frustrations at not having the time, energy, or single ounce of programming knowledge necessary to create games all on my own. Quick, dirty covers of older games both famous and obscure, like an alternate history of the medium. Why not?

Edit: Turns out the Four Tops covered ‘Walk Away Renee’ as well, and the original was by the Left Banke. Thanks Patrick for the correction.