Time to Play

The central conceit of Braid is the ability to rewind time, and change the course of events. In that game this is explicitly integrated into the story — Tim, the protagonist, works through the puzzles to try and efface some event in his past that he regrets. But this concept is relevant to any game with a save system.

In a recent ‘Game Club’ play-through of The Thing, RebelFM joked about various points in the game where a companion character would reach a point where they are scripted to turn into the ‘thing’ and attack the player. The player then dies, and has to reload. They have moved back in time — but this time armed with the knowledge that a certain character is infected, and will turn somewhere down the road. The RebelFM solution? Shoot them then and there, before they turn and cause damage. In this second play-through of the scenario the game does nothing to acknowledge that the player holds this information. Other companions would rightly be shocked at what would appear to them to have been the random killing of someone that appeared to be helping out.

This is an interesting and unique element of games as a narrative form in their own right. Films, books, radio — in every case if you rewind, turn back the page, when the scene plays forward again it will be the same. The text on the page will never change.

Game design often seems to (consciously or not) assume this malleable sense of time. The  modern Prince of Persia games are obvious touchstones. From the Prince’s narration in The Sands of TIme (“No, no — that’s not how it happened….”), to that game’s rewind mechanic. The forgiving hand that snatches you from danger in the 2008 reboot of the franchise assumes a great deal of ‘trial and error’ experimentation.

Braid aside this concept is very rarely an explicit part of the narrative of games. The grandest experiment with time-bending is almost certainly Planescape: Torment. The Black Isle RPG casts you as a nameless immortal, living through what appears to be one of thousands of lives, none of which he can remember. The great twist to this concept is that all the other characters in the game very much so remember previous incarnations of you. Playing through the game gradually reveals that each version of ‘you’ has behaved differently. Some people knew you as a saint, some as a villain. This dovetails creatively with the huge amount of freedom that the game allows you. One could think of the character’s past lives in the game as the play-throughs of other players.

Planescape came out in 1999. Ten years have given us Braid — but not much else that really moves the relationship of games and time to fresh places. More games need to push forward and explore what the form could allow.

hint, hint….

The classic Lucasarts adventure games exist in their own strange world, bound by their own arbitrary and often capricious logic. It’s part of their charm, if a little sick.

Revisiting Indiana Jones and the Fate of Atlantis over the last couple of weeks something has been gnawing at me: I played this game ten years ago. Without hints. This time through, I find myself constantly running to various faqs and walkthroughs. Have I lost my treasured problem solving skills? My ability to think outside the box?

For one thing, I don’t think I even knew where to get hints ten years ago. Certainly not as immediately as I can now. A quick alt-tab away from the game and google has all the answers waiting. It is so, so very easy. Playing through Atlantis again it has become something of a crutch. If I get stuck on a puzzle for more than a few minutes, off to the internet I go.

A couple of days ago I finally picked up Braid (thank you Steam Christmas sale). This is a game whose puzzles are cruel, malignant things. Sheer, unadulterated evil. It’s a brilliant game that I am completely stuck in. The game is divided into a series of rooms. You step through a door and are transported to a linked series of puzzles. Very hard puzzles. Moving through these puzzles you pick up jig-saw pieces, assembling them in a meta-puzzle. In the first room there is one damned piece left. I can’t get it. Fresh out of ideas. But in contrast to Atlantis, I have so far steadfastly refused to look at a hint. I intend to stick to this.

So what’s the difference?

Along with most of the gaming populous, my tolerance for frustration in games has dropped very close to zero. More and more if I am stuck in a game, I just put it down. Sometimes just for the night, sometimes permanently. If the ideal is an unbroken experience with one game-event flowing into the next naturally, I shouldn’t find myself running around in circles for half an hour, lost. As phenomenal as the surrounding game is, Uncharted 2 fell off my radar for a couple of days after one incident that left me searching for my suddenly-mute companion in a mountain village for 45 minutes after a gruelling firefight, eventually locating him in the one building in the town I hadn’t looked in. This stood out as such a thorn in the otherwise intuitive game that is seemed genuinely painful.

Last year’s Prince of Persia re-boot was perfect for my current gaming mood. The game was always there to lend a helping hand, delivering you from trouble, subtly guiding you towards your current goals. It was fun, pain and simple.

At the time of its release Prince of Persia was widely criticized for being ‘too easy.’ This out of some misguided notion that a gamer must prove their metal each and every time they pick up a controller. No, I say! I will bow to no pressure other than to enjoy myself in the game.

And so I turn to hints again and again to speed my progress through Atlantis. Because what am I really playing it for? The story, entertaining dialogue, and the nostalgic glow that lets me forgive the glaring flaws in both.

Braid is the exception. Something different. In this one case I really do have to insist on ramming my head against the wall over and over until something clicks, even if it is just out of pride. I want to feel that little satisfaction at finally figuring out how to get another piece of the puzzle. Partly this seems to be the desired experience the game wants you to have. The protagonist, Tim, is stuck in just this state. In this rare case, frustration fits the game.