Fast Forward

It occurred to me the other day, during a brief section of respite in Call of Duty 3 that such respite is actually my favorite portion of the game. Treyarch and Pi Studios have an enthusiastic grasp on nearly every facet of America’s favorite war. The weapon models are etched with so much affectionate detail that mere museum pieces pale in comparison. The theaters of combat and individual battles are scrupulously researched to provide just about as much realism as possible in a video game. Even the voice acting seems to carry the enthusiasm of, well, the neighbor kids and I playing “guns” in our long mutual strip of backyard twenty years back. Within all this din of war, however, the invisible elephant remains undiscovered. Firefights and heroism are made meaningful not by surrounding them with other firefights and heroism, but by the careful balance of such violence with more literary pursuits. The Call of Duty series has long ceased to stir my deeper emotions as I react to yet another battle by alternating my yawns with unsportsmanlike frustration.

If you still have your doubts, I suggest this experiment. Boot up any Call of Duty game, find a safe spot to hunker down in, and watch your teammates squat-running around. Looks ridiculous doesn’t it? Next, put in the Saving Private Ryan DVD and watch it on fast forward. Notice any similarities? Any game which features human characters faces a similar dilemma. The “uncanny valley” response applies not just to facial characteristics, but movement speed as well. Developers try to straddle the bucking bronco of boredom vs. 30mph walking speeds as best they can. The results are not usually pretty.

When presented with their fast-forwarding characters, game devs are quick to suggest that the slow moving suspension building which works so well in plays, movies, or literature simply won’t work for games. Interactivity, they argue, creates unique pressure for the designers to provide something for the player to “do” at all times. Precious few games have been brave enough to try out a few sections devoid of filler combat. Is it coincidence that these games have been some of the most critically acclaimed of all time? I don’t think so. Half Life 2 is one example, a game which successfully creates rising and falling tension on a small scale many times over its length. Even more poignantly, Shadow of the Colossus successfully includes huge sections with no traditional gameplay whatsoever.

Hypothetically, let’s say Treyarch got the idea to give Call of Duty 4 the Shadow of the Colossus treatment. I love how the poetic title of this PS2 masterpiece suggests its gameplay. Most of my time was spent not in the battle, but literally in the Shadow of the Colossus, or in other words, traveling the carefully crafted build-up to the mind shaking climax of that boyish arm with sword raised. Of course, I was still “doing” something in the downtime, alternating between holding my sword up to the sun, perfecting my horsemanship, and ogling an incredible beautiful landscape. No other game, before or since, has so eloquently presented the moral scaffolding of killing for personal gain.

“Oh dear, but how could these ideas possibly transfer to WW2?” our anxious and budget conscious publisher asks. First, real war doesn’t have very many firefights in it, so this build-up idea adds to the realism checkmarks we can put on our box. Next, the gameplay concepts have been proven by Shadow, so additional risk is not really being added. For example, we could take the blindingly obvious route and simply copy what Shadow has already taught us. Replace magical swords with an equally intuitive compass and bearing taking minigame. Replace horsemanship discoveries with other interesting diversions, such as striking up AI conversations with civilians, learning to take advantage of native birdsong as an early warning system, weapon cleaning, or even gathering a little bean-cooking havok-powered firewood. I could go on all day here. The point is that such tension building would create an environment where killing NPCs might actually stir real emotion.

Imagine a day spent in this hypothetical Call of Duty 4.

I was rudely woken at 0200 hours by an urgent whisper from Sarge. The new orders had arrived. It was up to me to locate a feasible approach to the Eastern flank of Mayenne. It’s possible he mistook me for a guy who knew his butt from a shell hole after my little performance at Saint Lo. I wiped yesterday’s mud off of my compass and shakily unfolded my map. After leading us in circles for several hours and narrowly avoiding a fistfight with Davis, I did manage to get on the right track and stumble upon the gorgeous skyline of Mayenne by sunrise. The smoke pouring off the bridge got me thinking that we’d missed the party, but the scream of artillery soon changed my mind.

We double timed it downtown and got into the first building we saw. I was so juiced up by this point I could only stare when Jerry flushed out of the bedroom like a spring turkey. Thankfully, Sarge didn’t have the same problem and laid him out. Killing a man is a funny thing. I honestly hope I don’t ever have to.

The single most disturbing aspect of fast forward game design is the absurd amount of art that gets completely ignored by the player. Forced to exist in that perpetual Call of Duty firefight, I’m simply not able to appreciate the kilohours of design and artistry all around me. Virtual reality isn’t about copying regular reality; gaming is all about the hyperreal. I tend to think of a given piece of level design as something between sculpture, architecture, and interactive painting. When I’m not given the opportunity to fully absorb this art, I get cranky. Maybe I’ve been spoiled by Okami, Shadow of the Colossus and Half life 2, but the fact remains that artful suspense is fun while mindless killing remains the opposite.