In the tabletop board game Clue (1943), players individually attempt to solve a murder by ascertaining the killer, location, and weapon. The game asks players to assume that a crime has been committed, there is indeed a solution, and all they must do is figure it out. However, gameplay structure and lack of narrative lend themselves toward a semiotics analysis informed by Baudrillard. Supposed characters can be understood as signs which actually signify nothing, catalyzing self-alienation and cognitive dissonance among players. The experience of playing Clue is thus sharply distinct from that of engaging with other detective media; whereas a fully-realized narrative, individual characters, and investigative/interpretive analysis are considered central to the genre, Clue lacks all three.
As a general rule, for all crimes in all detective stories, there must be a perpetrator. Indeed, in Clue, there is, but only in name. The killer (as well as the victim) is not playable as such; he is technically always one of the characters, but that status is unbeknownst by its player. Not only is it possible that the killer could be anybody, it could also be oneself. This premise of mutual suspicion pits each player against each other in competition. Such a dynamic, however, is only present because it is accepted and practiced. In actuality, playing as the character who perpetrated the crime has no material effect on the course of the game; Clue situates the crime in the perpetual past, foreclosing any component where the killer could actively create change. Because nobody plays in capacity as the killer, it is impossible to play against the killer. Thus, everyone is simultaneously treated as the killer while none of the players actually really are.
In this sense, the killer is relegated to a realm of non-existence. His actions are not material, there is no motive, no narrative, no means, he is simply not real. This lack of both agency and characterization, emphasized by the fact that the killer changes randomly between rounds, reveals a troublesome emptiness. He is a sign which signifies nothing, and Clue makes no effort to hide the utter absence of any underlying reality. Similarly, there is no information of note to be gleaned about the life or personality of the victim, Mr. Boddy, who isn’t even a playable character. Though he is present in the Clue film adaptation, the game predates it by over four decades, and in-game characterization is virtually absent. He, too, is an empty sign like the killer. Such a lack of narrative and identity regarding the two parties involved in the crime precludes the possibility of emotional investment in a story. The game has no genuine inner world, existing only in the moment it is played, entirely reconstituted from round to round.
Given that Clue offers little more than ‘there is a murder to be solved,’ why does anyone play it? While perhaps there is something intrinsically enjoyable in low-stakes competition, the game specifically fills its vacancy by relying on its players’ propensity to project meaning. It glorifies its game tokens to present them as ‘characters,’ but Colonel Mustard, Mrs. Peacock, Professor Plum and their ilk are signs just as empty as Mr. Boddy; their names are merely a pretentious way to refer to colored pips. There is no tangible difference in gameplay between any of them, and objectively, Clue would not change at all if it removed character names. Alternatively, on a subjective level, there is an important psychical effect from the sense that one is temporarily stepping outside of oneself to embody a character. Players ultimately think, reason, and act as they naturally do, but they displace their decisions onto a phantasy realm, engaging in a form of self-alienation.
Clue generates cognitive dissonance under the pretense of play-acting, insofar as players suppose they are pretending, but really are solely themselves. In the context of all its empty signs, the game is the epitome of simulacra: there is nothing permanent, truthful, or real in the game world, and it never tries to obscure this quality. As it deconstructs the dichotomy between real and fake, Clue presents itself as neither, deferring entirely to the player to project or derive something from it. Here, there is an absolute degradation of meaning-making. Every element of the game is a sign with nothing behind it, which it cares not to conceal—and yet, in its open emptiness, it troubles the assumption that a profound reality exists, even in fiction, causing a psychical rupture. Players compensate for their inability to accept hyperreality by splitting their consciousness, artificially separating the ‘real self’ from the game character, though they are truly one and the same.
There is an argument to be made that this is the point, that maybe Clue’s psychical effects through simulacra are geared toward an environment where players can process fear. As with the horror and crime genres, detective stories often reflect anxieties of the time and allow catharsis through balanced immersion/remove. The key distinction here is that there is never a story in Clue. Beyond the empty character signifiers, the clue cards further degrade any semblance of narrative. The perpetrator, location, and weapon are changed every round at complete random and afforded no explanatory justification. The cards players possess are random as well, devoid of any reason their character might hold that knowledge. Clue’s premise of “solving” a crime is completely pretend: it’s just repetitive guess-and-check directed toward a process of elimination. Players are asked to deduce a supposed answer from the absence of information rather than derive meaning form its presence. This method is at significant odds with the detective work of novels, films, and even other interactive games.
Here, Clue diverges from other media in the detective genre across multiple axes. Players don’t practice any analytic thinking; they only engage in logic and pattern recognition, and there is no interpretation or investigation. Unlike a detective novel, Clue does not let anyone examine a body, genuinely search a room, interview witnesses, or source outside counsel, and even consideration of a potential motive has no merit. The game forces its players into inescapable passivity while simultaneously removing any collaborative possibility. Neither the cards nor the people who hold them change in a single round, all available information is controlled by others, and the ability to access it depends upon the very players one competes against. Such gameplay mechanics introduce an unfortunate element of luck. Indeed, when a guess is made, the revelation of conflicting clues progresses clockwise; what if the player directly to one’s right holds the card necessary to confirm a final guess? Even something as arbitrary as seating arrangement influences a player’s chances of winning—and yet, legitimate analysis is impossible under the game’s constraints.
Were the purging of anxiety Clue’s goal, lack of agency in the game would completely undermine it. In the detective novel or film, though the audience cannot take action in the fictional world, the detective character (and others) can; this suggests the existence of agency in the event of a legitimate real-world crime and relieves the audience. Clue players are afforded no such catharsis because the game has no bearing on reality. Killer and victim are empty signs, characters are vessels for projection, luck matters more than intellect, genuine action is not allowed, and satisfaction from a narrative conclusion is denied.
As a simulacra, Clue is evil. It is an affront to the detective genre and a perversion of tabletop games. Its mere presence in the world accelerates the death of reality and the catastrophic loss of truth on the basest of levels: even the certainty of the self comes into question and is fractured. Whereas Descartes posited dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum, Clue players transfigure their doubt of reality into a decimation of the self, not an affirmation. When the mind, as the last safe vestige of truth, of faith in existence, is conquered,
hyperreality has prevailed.
Written by Sage
Intermittent Mechanism 