When I posed the discussion question to the class of what constitutes failure in Outer Wilds, I admittedly was not sure how I would go about answering this question myself. It is a complicated question due to the difficulty of applying medium-specific notions of failure to a game that refuses to fit neatly into most of these boxes.

For instance, while the Juul reading references three different types of goals in videogames—completable goals, transient goals, and improvement goals—Outer Wilds involves a combination of all three. Reaching the “true” ending of Outer Wilds at the Eye of the Universe could be considered as the main completable goal of the game, but many of the individual actions required to achieve this ending are in themselves transient goals, as they must be repeated many times until the player can successfully string them all together. And, of course, given that the only quality persisting from one loop to the next is the player’s knowledge (and perhaps skill at flying the spaceship), there is a constant goal of self-improvement. One may expect that, with so many different types of goals to achieve, failure might be inevitable in Outer Wilds. However, after the discussion in class on Monday, I now feel that I would argue the opposite—that it is impossible to fail in Outer Wilds.

This argument stems primarily from the fact that, due to these varying types of goals in the game, there are just as many ways to succeed as there are to fail, and a partial success seems to triumph over a partial failure in the context of the game. Thus, effectively no gameplay time spent can be a complete failure, as it always leads to progression towards one of these three types of goals.

Before our in-class discussion about this topic, I generally leaned toward the belief that it was quite unlikely to fail in Outer Wilds, given that the accumulation of knowledge is effectively an ever-present fact of playing the game. However, there were still some situations that I would have likely classified as failure that I have since changed my mind about. For one, the majority of the game’s “alternative endings” did initially feel like failures to me. If the player is engulfed by the supernova or simply falls too far and dies, this would not be a failure in my eyes, since the player’s character didn’t not reach their goal—the story is not over yet. Each individual loop is just one step in the player’s (and, at the same time, the playable character’s) journey to reaching the Eye of the Universe, and the beginning of a new loop is merely a fact of life in this universe. However, destroying spacetime or disabling the time loop and then flying outside of the solar system created a different feeling for me. These events, which actually do tell the player they have reached a “Game Over,” are canonical endings to the storyline of the game, unlike repeated iterations of the loop. The playable character is dead, and the time loop will not bring them back to life. The only way to continue from them is by means of the non-diegetic affordance of reloading from a previous save point—which effectively means nothing in Outer Wilds, since nothing changes from one loop to the next. Aside from the ship log being preserved, the player may as well be starting a new playthrough with a new character after reaching each of these “endings,” since there is no other narrative explanation for the character coming back to life. In these cases, the player did bring their character to an end of their story, and it was not the one that has been equated to success.

However, a point that Nicole brought up in our class discussion caused me to shift my perspective on this. Although reaching the Eye of the Universe is generally treated as the “true” ending of Outer Wilds, this is determined by little more than it being the most “satisfying” and complicated ending to reach. While there are a particular few key secrets that are necessary in order to figure out how to achieve this ending, reaching the Eye is not necessarily a sign that the player has seen all that there is to see in the universe, nor that they have “won” or “saved” anything. Therefore, reaching any ending at all could be argued to be a completable goal of Outer Wilds, since it brings canonical closure to the game’s story and ends the playthrough, even if it is not the conventionally accepted “good” ending. If these endings are just as valid as reaching the Eye of the Universe, it makes more sense to view all of them as some form of success in Outer Wilds, rather than a sign of failure.

An additional point from class I wanted to focus on was King’s comment about how missing certain timed events and having to restart the loop could be considered failures. In one of my discussion questions, I hoped to draw attention to how Outer Wilds’ lack of many real consequences for making mistakes affected the perception of failure, and reflecting on timed events brought me to a new perspective about this theme. While it is true that dying in a videogame can always be frustrating, it is an incredibly minor setback in Outer Wilds, merely requiring the player to return to the location they died at and keep searching. However, the inclusion of timed events makes this a trickier topic, as a player may end up having to wait 10 or 15 minutes after the start of a new loop before being able to return to the same location or event. In a way, this causes the stakes for missing such an event to feel higher, since the player knows they will have to spend time waiting before making another attempt. However, despite the fact that these higher stakes can lead to frustration, it still does not feel accurate to label these situations as failure, since each attempt ultimately brings the player more knowledge and skill that advance them toward Juul’s perpetual goal of improvement, and lessons learned from past mistakes can always be applied on the next iteration of the loop.

Based on my own experience with the game and the points brought up by several members of class, I feel it is reasonable to assert that there is no such thing as failure in Outer Wilds. Due to the time loop’s diegetic purpose in narrative, the great number of goals of varying types, and the lack of consequence for making mistakes, virtually every second spent playing Outer Wilds leads in some capacity to the success of the player.

–Madelyn

By Lucy Huang

From the moment I laid eyes on Unpacking, its vibrant interface drew me in. As I delved into it, the gentle background music accompanied my exploration of various items hidden in cardboard boxes and navigation of different spaces. Transitioning from one time period to another, from one home to the next, I began to discern distinct trends and a developing storyline. Each year brought changes in interior design and room layouts, symbolizing the character’s personal growth from childhood to adulthood, from a dorm room dweller to a homeowner with a family. The gradual introduction of modern objects, like upgrading from a heavy computer to a laptop with a drawing pad, echoed the passage of time, while subtle shifts in lighting from the window as you are unpacking enhanced the immersive experience of unpacking. Repetitive objects, such as art supplies and musical instruments, hinted at the character’s interests and pastimes. I started learning more about this character personally-She is an artist, gamer, musician, and her earlier soccer trophies also indicate that she might have used to play football as a kid.

In class, we discussed the role of “failure” in games. Unpacking‘s form of failure is its rules on specific object placements, and sometimes they are asked to be placed in unexpected places. Specifically, players are asked to place certain objects in unexpected or unconventional places, which requires multiple “failures” or attempts to be able to achieve. However, the multiple attempts to discern the correct positioning, often revealing hidden narratives. For example, one of the 5 photos is asked to be placed in a corner of a cabinet. We could guess for example, that the photo must have been a photo with her ex and our character went through a break up that year. While these unconventional placements contribute to the game’s narrative depth, they can also frustrate players if it takes too long after it happens multiple times. Others in class have also raised similar concerns that sometimes the placement did not make sense and while some unveiled interesting narratives, some just created pure frustration for them.

Photo of ex in the cabinet ^

This was a game with limited dialogue, and the narratives are discovered almost purely through the player’s interaction with the space and objects. Although the overall narrative can be discovered through different methods I have mentioned above, there are still small details I realized I missed through conversations with other players. For example, the rock climbing gear that was replaced by painkillers in the next house, and that one year where her boyfriend moved into the same house that she is in. These details discovered by different people made me realize that there are still more narratives I can unveil even if I have played through the whole game. I could see myself returning back and discovering new narratives in the next play through.

Comparing Unpacking to other spatial narrative games raised questions about player perspective and agency. Unlike first-person games where the player is discovering the space as one of the characters in the game, Unpacking makes the player look from above the room, and makes it clear that you are simply unpacking the room for someone else. Does this make the game less immersive and engaging? Although some people might agree, I started thinking about the role I assigned myself in the game. It almost felt like I was a parental figure of the character, seeing her growth, and it reminded me of times where I moved around dorms or houses, and my mom helped me with unpacking the room. As I play through different time periods, I find myself feeling a sense of empathy for the character, feeling bad for her when I discovered the photo of the ex, and cheering when finding out she has a baby. The cozy interiors depicted by the graphics and gentle music also helped to contribute to the heartwarming atmosphere. In regards to limited agency, it was interesting to play this game after playing contrasting “choose your own adventure” game, where the player decides or contributes to the narrative. Here, the interaction is not from shaping the narrative, but discovering the story through interactions with the objects and space. I do not feel like I prefer one over the other, but it was inspirational to see another methodology of interactive narrative.

Through this project, it has inspired me to think about my experience growing up too. Some objects stay with you and some do not— some just need to be thrown or originally important objects are now put underneath your bed. It got me thinking about the theme of nostalgia, time, and how individual objects hold their value and carry unique narratives despite looking ordinary to others. It also inspired me artistically. Having moved around a lot, and it being core experiences in my life, Unpacking gave me ideas of potentially implementing similar techniques in future personal projects. I would like to narrate my life story through interaction design with spatial elements and the objects acquired during various life stages, and tell my journey around different cultures and environments this way.

As someone who avoids any film, show, or game with even the slightest hint of horror, I felt a sinking sensation in my chest as I laid eyes on the cover art for Gone Home. In it, we see an ominous mansion nestled amidst desolate woods, under an eerie purple sky, with a solitary light illuminating from the house, hinting at a presence within its seemingly abandoned walls. In Gone Home, you play as Katie Greenbriar who has just returned from her travels abroad to her family’s new residence. Before stepping inside, you linger on the porch, reading a foreboding letter from your younger sister, Samantha (Sam), which hints at her possible disappearance. Along with that mysterious note, when you enter the house it’s suspiciously empty. Through letters, journal entries, and other artifacts found throughout the house, you can gradually piece together the story of Katie’s family and the mystery of the bare house.. As I navigated the dimly lit corridors of the aged mansion, my heart raced with anticipation. The eerie ambiance, punctuated by creepy noises, set the stage for what I presumed would be a classic horror ordeal. Little did I know, the game held something entirely unexpected—a hidden romance that would resonate with me in ways I never imagined.

As we step into the house, we’re greeted by a series of recorded messages playing from the family’s answering machine. Among them is the haunting sound of a woman’s voice crying out for our sister. Could this be a distress call, a warning of danger lurking within the shadows, or perhaps a clue to Sam’s whereabouts? It’s a disconcerting start to our exploration, made all the more unsettling by the eerie ambiance of the rainy night, the creaking floorboards that seem to groan with each step, and the looming shadows that hint at potential jumpscares around every corner. The atmospheric setting, reminiscent of a stereotypical horror scenario, casts the abandoned mansion as a character in its own right, evoking memories of classic titles like the 1980 video game Mystery House. With each passing moment, it becomes increasingly evident that all is not as it seems within these walls, and it falls upon the player to unravel the mysteries hidden within.

While exploring, we uncover more about Sam, who serves as the central character in this narrative. Surface details about her emerge through easily accessible items like her cassette tapes, which reveal her music tastes, and early short stories that hint at her passion for writing. Additionally, the playful letters exchanged between Sam and Lonnie hint at the blossoming of a friendship. However, the story’s most profound narrative elements are concealed within the house’s hidden compartments. One might wonder why a house would require so many clandestine spaces—perhaps to conceal family secrets? In reality, each compartment we unlock unveils more about Sam than we could have anticipated from merely exploring the accessible rooms. These hidden spaces provide insights into Sam’s struggle with her sexuality. For instance, within Sam’s locked locker, we discover a photo of Lonnie with her vibrant red hair—a dye job Sam had assisted with, leaving behind a mess resembling blood in the tub. As we peer into Sam’s locker, one of her journal entries plays, recounting one of her and Lonnie’s early intimate moments: a kiss that leaves Sam giddy. Despite the lengths we must go to uncover the compartment’s code, scattered across different areas of the house, Sam isn’t harboring a shameful secret. Instead, she’s safeguarding a part of herself she’s beginning to understand, but doesn’t know how those around her (her parents) will respond.

Earlier in the story, we discover that our family home has earned the nickname “the psycho house” due to our reclusive great uncle, Oscar Masan, who lived there until his passing. The game initially suggests the presence of a supernatural entity, possibly Oscar himself, with the discovery of an Ouija board and a paper indicating communication with him. This narrative thread continues as we unlock a secret compartment next to the foyer stairs, revealing what appears to be a seance setup for Oscar, complete with a pentagram, a “Possession and Exorcism” book, and his picture. However, a pivotal revelation occurs when we learn that the Ouija board and the contents of the room were a result of Sam and Lonnie’s last night together, aiming to create a fond farewell memory. The once-feared “psycho house” transforms, as all the eerie elements are revealed to stem from Sam and Lonnie’s final, fun moments with one another. This moment underscores the transformative power of Sam’s personal experiences and memories, suggesting that what initially appeared as sinister/haunted actually had more heartfelt sentiments. In this room, we also find the key to Sam’s ominous attic, lit with an array of red lights that reminded me of Stranger Things. As we ascend the stairs, we encounter pictures and items that indicate this was a cherished, safe space for Lonnie and Sam. The picture that particularly caught my eye shows the two holding hands, which are wrapped with a connecting heart necklace—an emblem echoed throughout the home.

This room offers vital answers to any lingering questions the player may have. Here, we discover that the voice message heard at the beginning of the game was from Lonnie. She was calling to inform Sam that she had decided not to join the Army so that she and Sam could run away together—a plan to which Sam eagerly agrees to. We also find a book containing all of Sam’s journal entries addressed to Katie, reassuring her not to worry. Sam hopes that we can understand her decision, and promises a reunion, which marks a poignant and hard hitting end of the game. 

To truly find her place in the world, Sam had to break free from the confines of her family’s home and embrace a love that felt undeniably right with Lonnie. While I’m curious about the adventures that await the duo, I think it’s fitting that Sam’s whereabouts remain unknown. I felt a bit guilty sifting through her personal belongings, unraveling the secrets she left behind in the house, so it’s only fitting Sam gets a little bit of privacy now. Now, Sam can embark on a new chapter of her life with the person who brings her the greatest joy. As her trusted sister, we can find a sense of closure in the meticulous journal she left for us, knowing that she is living true to herself and following her heart.

The brilliance of Gone Home lies in its ability to subvert genre expectations and deliver a narrative that is as captivating as it is unconventional. By seamlessly blending elements of horror with themes of romance and identity, the game challenges players to look beyond the surface and explore the deeper, more meaningful stories hidden within its walls. If you haven’t played Gone Home, I urge you to embark on this unforgettable journey. Prepare to be surprised, moved, and forever changed by the unexpected romance that lies within the haunting halls of Arbor Hill.

by Josh Nkhata

“Show, don’t tell” is often considered the golden rule of storytelling. A good story, it posits, does not tell you what is happening but demonstrates it through the actions and behaviors of characters in scenes. If John is sad, do not tell us John is sad, show us how mopey his walk is, how contorted his face is, and how he talks to the barista. Video games often choose to obey this rule, however, they don’t seem to be bound to it in the same way that prose, poetry, or drama are. The Infectious Madness of Doctor Dekker is a game that seems to function almost entirely around the opposite idea, “tell, don’t show”, and yet somehow it still works as a narrative entity. By exploring what allows Dekker to skirt and morph the “golden rule” we can begin to identify aspects such as gamification, genre amplification, and a warping of POV, that make video game narratives different from their counterparts. As Jon McKenzie notes in his response to Henry Jenkins, video games are “not narratives, not films, not plays – but they’re also not-not-narratives, not-not-films, not-not-plays”.

In The Mysterious Madness of Doctor Dekker, you play a therapist investigating the murder of Doctor Dekker, your clients’ former psychiatrist. You do this by typing in questions to each character who, if the system understands your question, answers. The game consists solely of video clips of patients answering questions on the couch in your office. This formula clearly does not seem conducive to narrative storytelling as the act of talking to a therapist is inherently a “tell” act (it’s “tell me about your day” not “show me about it”). It also creates a scenario where there is very little room for actual action to occur and, accordingly, there isn’t really action in the game. The “real” story exists entirely outside of our player character and yet the game still engages the player. One way it does this is through gamifying itself. At most moments the game feels much less like a narrative and more like a puzzle, both a puzzle to interact with the database through questions (as at times it is quite challenging to find the next right question) and a puzzle to solve the mystery itself. In these ways the game is akin to a physical jigsaw puzzle: one rarely solves it to see the beauty and craftsmanship of the picture like they would a story (just look at the box!), rather, there is joy to be found in the act of solving itself. At first glance it seems like the gameness merely distracts us from narrative elements, seemingly supporting a “ludological” view that games are mechanical before they are narrative. However, the gameness in Doctor Dekker feels to be an intentional exaggeration of a very narrative/literary concept, genre.

Video games very often pledge themselves to specific genres and employ tropes from their genres to great effect. In many cases, the increased immersion, which stems from the player being an actor in the story, can amplify the effects of the genre. One might consider how the jumpscare of horror game feels particularly intense compared to that of a novel or even a movie. Or how the 50+ hr sagas of an adventure game may feel more epic. In the case of Doctor Dekker the genre, mystery, is already fairly game-like, as so much of its appeal comes from figuring things out as you read or watch. Thus, a game like this ends up amplifying the game-like components of mystery. This amplification is another reason why Dekker is able to tell instead of show. Being sworn to a genre means that players of the game will bring preconceived notions of the kind of story your telling. In Dekker the story is so similar to ones we already know that much of it can be imagined and filled out in our heads without the game needing to show us explicitly. Mckenzie says games “depend on our familiarity with the roles and goals of genre entertainment to orient us to the action”. We can imagine and craft what the murder and body might have looked like and when we are told details, like the murder weapon being a paper spike, we can slightly alter our stereotypical picture.

The warping of POV in video games is another facet that Dekker uses to dodge the golden rule. Most of this stems from the difference between playing a character and embodying a character. Embodying a character is rather easy in literature and often in traditional cinema too. When embodying a character you do share a point of view but there is a degree of separation between you and the character. If a first-person narrative uses the I pronoun the reader knows it doesn’t also mean them even though they share a perspective with the character. Many video games, Dekker included, instead function like the more obscure 2nd person narrative where you are implied to be actively within the story. This not only creates a heightened sense of immersion but also alters the meaning of what “show, don’t tell” is. Although in these kinds of narratives there is usually a story happening outside of your character that you are observing, there is also a story strictly about your character which cannot help but be entirely show. In the case of Doctor Dekker, while the more important story, the murder, is something we don’t get shown, there is also a story about our character as a therapist interacting with our patients. Everything that happens is implied to be happening to us and, thus, we are being shown everything and told nothing. While this certainly should not change our view of Dekker as a tell-based story it can offer an explanation as to why the game, and many similar games, do not feel as if they are contradicting “rules” of storytelling as you play them.

The Infectious Madness of Doctor Dekker is a particularly interesting game for studying digital narratives. It is at the same unique and genre-reliant, it is innovative in its form but borrows so much from text-parser games before, and it is narrative but does not follow the roles that govern narratives. The game also raises thematic questions in regard to mental illness and autonomy. Questions of form and of theme are constantly intertwining in the game. Perhaps, video games as narrative mediums are most effective at allowing us to explore these intersections.

IMMORTALITY follows the acting career of Marissa Marcel and the three films she starred in. Her life is revealed to us through clips from rehearsals, interviews, and behind-the-scenes of her three films. The player is looking through and scrubbing these clips to uncover why they were never released and what happened to Marissa Marcel.  Each clip is revealed by clicking on certain images, but it’s not done linearly. Any random image can send you to one of the three films. 

The first film Marcels starred in is called Ambrosio, which was filmed in 1968. Ambrosio follows a Catholic priest who uses his place of power to engage in his desires. The priest is being manipulated by Marcel’s character, Matilda, who is hiding as a monk for her safety. After being caught for his crimes, the priest signs his soul over to Satan in order to be spared from his execution. It is revealed that Matilda had made a pact with Satan and had been manipulating the priest into selling his soul as well. In an interview to promote the film, it was revealed that Marissa Marcel had been an unknown actress prior to being cast by the director. Despite finishing the film and promoting it, the film was never released because the director stole all of the negatives and disappeared. During the filming, however, Marcel becomes romantically involved with the Director of Photography John Durick. Durick then goes on to direct Marcel’s next film. 

The second film is called Minsky and it was filmed in 1970. In this film, Marissa plays the girlfriend and muse of a murdered artist named Franny. She becomes romantically involved with the detective investigating the murder, and he’s played by Carl Greenwood. Franny is helping the detective solve the murder, but it is revealed that Franny is the one who murdered the artist. She was planning on leaving him because she was done with his controlling behavior, but the artist would not let her leave. Instead, she murders him and tries to cover her tracks, but ultimately reveals what she did by the end of the film. However, during filming, Marcel “accidentally” shoots Greenwood with a prop gun. They never released the film because they were not able to finish shooting the film.

After filming Minsky, Marcel disappears for more than twenty years before coming back to film her third and final film Two of Everything in 1999. In this film, Marissa Marcel plays two different characters. She plays Maria, a growing pop star, and Heather, Maria’s body double. After Maria is found dead under mysterious circumstances, Heather is sure Maria was murdered and investigates her death. Heather uncovers that Maria was murdered and by whom so she sets out to get revenge on those involved. Towards the end of filming, Marissa Marcel disappears and they are never able to finish filming.

While watching these clips, you can unlock secret clips that reveal a much darker story to the game. It is revealed through these hidden clips that Marcel is possessed by a being called The One. Although not much is known about The One’s origins, she seems to be an immortal being who has the ability to possess and replace people. The One is drawn to sex, violence, and art so that’s why those themes are present in all three of Marissa’s films. These hidden clips can be found by rewinding specific tapes, and this is usually accompanied by a special sound effect that helps players find these clips. Through these clips, we learn that Marissa Marcel was a French woman who was being sexually abused by German soldiers during World War II. The One comes to Marissa and offers to help her in exchange for her human form. Along with the One, there’s also The Other One who follows the One throughout the game. We learn that the Other One was possessing Carl Greenwood during Minsky and the One shot Greenwood on purpose.

We also learn more about Marcel’s disappearance through these hidden clips. The One had revealed their identity to Marcel’s boyfriend John Durick, but he reacted with disgust towards the One. The One then decides to take over Durick’s form as well as Marcel’s. However, the One is not capable of taking on two forms at once and her body starts to break down. During the filming of Two of Everything, Marcel starts bleeding on set multiple times because the One is being overwhelmed by possessing two people. At this point, the Other One is possessing another actress on set Amy Archer. The Other One decides to end the One’s suffering by killing them and burning them alive. This final scene is revealed once you’ve unlocked enough official clips no matter which clips you found.

While discussing the game in class, it was interesting to hear everyone’s thoughts on this storyline, specifically some people’s frustrations with it. People in class specifically mentioned their difficulty in finding these clips, or even knowing they existed. Like myself, some people found the secret clips by accident. There was never any indication that there were secret clips, so it’s possible to play through most of the game without even realizing there was an underlying storyline. There were also issues with uncovering parts of the story. For example, nobody in class was able to find the scene where Marissa Marcel gets possessed by the One which is probably one of the most important scenes in the game. The game also ends whether or not you find all the secret clips so it felt as though important pieces of the story were missing even though you technically finished the game. It was easier to find these clips knowing that the sound effects indicate secret clips, but not everybody realized that. As interesting as this hidden storyline was, it was difficult to uncover the full picture.

Galatea is an interactive video game created by Emily Short in 2000. It follows in the path of many electronic literature pieces, like Afternoon, A Story (1990) and other text parser games like Adventure (1980). The game is loosely based on the ancient Greek myth of Pygmalion, who crafted a sculpture of a woman, and later fell in love with the sculpture, named Galatea. In Short’s 2000 game, Galatea is a sculpture in an exhibition on artificial intelligence. The player is in the room alone with Galatea, who sits on a pedestal under a spotlight, with a placard in front.

The player interacts with Galatea using a series of commands, ranging from tell to turn. The player isn’t offered any sort of explicit goal or map for their ‘progress.’ In fact, the game is fairly non-linear, in that the player directs how the interaction unfolds with their specific inputs. The main way to interact with Galatea is through speaking, either asking Galatea questions to gain more knowledge about her, or to tell Galatea about the character we play as. The game goes so far as to prompt the player after periods of silence ( i.e. after inputting numerous commands that don’t result in conversation with Galatea); the game does this either through Galatea herself, who will prompt the player directly through dialogue, or the game will recommend asking Galatea about specific topics if your talk about commands don’t result in dialogue. These two features give the player some direction within the game; it is quickly understood that dialogue is important to playing, and as the player delves deeper into specific topics with Galatea, they can control the tone of the conversation and their closeness to Galatea herself.

Galatea also features a number of other commands that the player can use, some of which are more useful than others. The recap command allows the player to view all the conversation topics they’ve discussed already with Galatea. By italicizing some of these topics, the game also highlights which topics have been asked about multiple times and thus exhausted. Other possible commands include listen, walk to, look at, touch, turn, and many others. It’s interesting that the game recognises many of these inputs as commands, especially considering many of them have no utility, or are very limited. Walk to, for instance, accomplishes nothing as the player isn’t allowed to leave the room they are in or walk around within the room either. Listen also doesn’t reveal much about the room or Galatea either.

While the inclusion of these commands may appear useless, they accomplish two purposes. Firstly, having the game recognise so many different inputs allows the game to feel more comprehensive and complex; Galatea feels less limited because it’s responsive to a wider range of user inputs than necessary and might be expected. This allows the game to feel bigger than it really is, and it’s easier for the player to become immersed in the world of the game. Finally, and somewhat relatedly, the inclusion of so many commands allows for a more enjoyable player experience. Beyond spelling errors, there’s an encouragement that comes with seeing different responses to different inputs. Even as the player may be disappointed and confused when a command like move doesn’t offer an interesting response, it also encourages further exploration for different commands. Knowing that seemingly random inputs are accepted as commands begs the question “what else can I put in that will be recognised as a valid input, and what will that accomplish?”

Furthermore, one other mechanic that makes the game more user-friendly is the game’s recognition of certain nouns as being interchangeable. For instance, the player could type in “Pygmalion” or “artist,” and both would be accepted by the game to mean the same thing. Asking Galatea about either prompts the same response.

Ultimately, all of these elements, the subtle direction the game gives the player and the ways in which it encourages curiosity and exploration of different inputs and commands, allows the player to discover that there are a number of different possible endings. Whether it’s from deciding to ask twice about Aphrodite, or having some familiarity with the original Pygmalion myth and discovering you can kiss or hug Galatea, the player eventually encounters a built in purpose into the game – experiencing different endings, and possibly trying to achieve a “desirable” ending. The endings are shaped by the player’s various inputs during the course of the game. In this way, as the game prompts the player to converse with Galatea, it’s really pushing the player towards an ending. Without having any explicit mapping options for the player, Galatea gives the player a sense of agency and direction that many other text parsers and works of electronic fiction don’t offer.

Disappearing Rain is a deeply interesting work of electronic literature that explores themes of tradition, spirituality, grievance, and modernity through salient and evocative prose and poetry. But what is most interesting to me is that I felt this way after navigating the Disappearing Rain website and essentially crafting the story’s structure myself. The actual experience of navigating the database structure of the Disappearing Rain website and the way that it affects the impact that the words on the screen have on the audience is primarily what I want to focus on.

Narratives usually follow the format of exposition -> rising action -> climax -> falling action -> resolution, with specific plot points that fit the narrative function of each of those sections being placed in the subsequent categories. This also applies to nonlinear storytelling, the actual chronological position within the plot is less important than the narrative purpose when it comes to where in the work the author will choose to place a particular scene. Think of Gone Girl, which I will not spoil for anyone that hasn’t seen, and how the first act of the movie jumps around chronologically because it has to in order to actually convey what the movie will be about, it’s all exposition placed at the beginning of the movie to serve its role as exposition.

There’s a reason why authors choose to do this (presumably, I’m not doing any research here), and it’s because each category serves as context to the next so that the audience can follow along. If a movie were to break the structure and do something like climax -> exposition -> rising action without moving back to the climax it would confuse or, worse yet, bore the audience because the exposition and rising action serve as the context that invests an audience in the narrative. Similarly, the climax is the context that further invests the audience in the falling action and resolution. (Think the impetus of creating El Camino following what many considered to be an unfulfilled resolution at the climax of Breaking Bad)

Disappearing Rain, and other database-as-database pieces of electronic literature, somewhat throw that structure to the wind because they allow the audience to experience the narrative in whatever order they so choose. There are indeed scenes in Disappearing Rain that would normally serve as exposition and the like, but they are not placed in any particular order, at least not one set in stone.

There are a couple of ways to read Disappearing Rain that you could say are intended by the author given the structure of the website.

1. Click each phrase of the poems in succession
2. Trace each character pair, clicking through the phrases in succession
3. Follow the flow, and click on the links within the body that interest you

Given the name of this blog post, it is likely apparent which route I prefer, but I find the fact that there are multiple to be fascinating in itself. Let’s start with the first. Disappearing Rain is organized into two sets of poems, each with its own poem broken up into a list of links that connect to the actual body of the work. So it’s possible to go down the list of links in the order of the poem. Similarly, each line of the poem represents a part of the story of a character pair, so it’s possible to follow the links in order but move about the lines in order to stay focused on one character pair. However, I haven’t dedicated much time to exploring the work in either of these manners. Instead, I chose to follow the flow.

I began by going to the first overarching poem and began at the first link in its subsequent poem, and from there I let curiosity take hold of me. Inside each body of text, there are links to other relevant bodies. Similar to keywords in natural language-input games, there are some words that stick out to the audience that the audience is compelled to interact with. Here, these keywords are hyperlinks to something relevant to that word. For instance, in the body “Water Leavings” -> “the word is” -> “knowing” there is prose introducing the main mystery of the work: Anna is missing and the only trace of her are these strange love letter emails. The keywords in this body of text are “the bodies [of the emails],” “police,” and “the window.”

Clicking on “the bodies” will bring you to the next link in the line of “the word is,” which is a body of text examining the body of one of these love letter emails. Clicking on “police” will bring you to “River Journeys” -> “in their presence” -> “the river parts” which is a body of text that is a letter to the Berkley Campus Police from Anna that tells them not to search for her. Clicking on “the window” brings you to “Water Leavings” -> “realities” -> “crystal edges” which is a body of text about Anna’s great-grandmother, Yuki, and how Anna’s soul visited her window the night she disappeared. These are all different story beats, with the first two of them being more related exposition about the circumstances of Anna’s disappearance and the third being more exposition about another story thread, being the familial connection and reaction to Anna’s disappearance.

The choice of which story beat comes next is the audience’s, which makes pacing an interesting challenge. There still do appear to be bodies of text that fit each narrative category of exposition, climax, etc. and the map of links seems to be mapped in a way that you don’t encounter anything prematurely unless you choose a starting point randomly. But even though the mapping of subjects is somewhat structured traditionally, there is always the chance of splitting the narrative and not giving plot lines enough time to sit.

For instance, in my first navigation, I was most intrigued by “the bodies” because I wanted to know the contents of the emails left on Anna’s computer, as well as the possibility that it was being used as a double entendre and that I could learn Anna’s fate early on. This kept me on the “Anna’s disappeared and we’re learning some of the context that will serve the investigation of this mystery” storyline until eventually, I clicked on a link that I thought would teach me more about Anna. Granted, that body of text did teach me more about Anna, but it did so in relation to her lineage more broadly, and from there I got more into her relatives, which led me to exposition for a later plot line of the credit card company-soul stealing conspiracy plot line, which, through me trying to get more information on that, took me back to more exposition about the family which led me to a climax of the grieving plotline. On its face, this sounds like a failure of pacing and messy narrative whiplash, but while actually reading it it felt like the exact opposite.

Since every diversion was a decision I made in hopes of finding more information, and each body of text was written to make the audience want to know more, it always felt good to me to just follow the flow. No matter what I clicked on I was getting what I wanted, more information to piece together this maze of mysteries, which acted as its own investment mechanism. Unlike traditional stories which must set up a compelling premise and feed you enough information in a block to make you invested in the rest of the story, the act of searching for the next piece of information served as the investment. I actively wanted to learn more, so when I got off my originally intended path of finding exposition about Anna’s disappearance and stumbled upon a climatic scene of her grieving mother, it felt natural and it felt impactful. It was exactly what I was looking for, an answer to some aspect of this great mystery. In this way, the database-as-database structure allows the audience to create their own narrative progression that follows the flow that they make for themselves, an interesting way of keeping the audience satisfied.

– King Deas

After spending a good amount of time with Choose Love and hearing the class discussion, I wanted to go more into why this piece of interactive media might not feel as satisfying as others. Is it by nature of the medium? The genre? The database? Our agency? Two concepts discussed in class stuck out to me about this kind of piece: the feeling of role-playing and being able to live out your “full toxicity.” When I thought of the question, Is this experience too guided? I was thinking of the limited possibilities of being able to play out your wildest fantasies by virtue of being a film that has to follow certain guidelines. For one, any choice needs to follow the plot and themes. The basic concept behind the film is that our choices impact our relationships, but you can always change decisions you made in the past. So, to follow that narrative, the creative team couldn’t necessarily create options that deviate too far from the general path because, even without hitting the undo button, you should still know that you can change your decisions. For that reason, it felt unnatural to us that there seemed to be no consequences for our actions. We could spend time with one guy and know nothing about the other, but the other random person is still open as an option, and the person we have been building rapport with doesn’t take it too hard and will always take us back. It pulls us out of the role-playing format because there is only a set number of filmed clips that must follow a specific order to make sense in the story. Thus making it easier to interact with as you only have two preset options at each decision point, but you can’t fully embody a character or another version of yourself like you could roleplay with a chatbot like Galatea. Some of the fantasy when playing games lies in being able to be your worst self and get a “bad ending.” Since you are limited by the clips keeping the story in line, you are only allowed to be as toxic as the game permits, which, by nature of the genre, is not that bad because every conclusion is a happy ending where your past faults are forgotten. Thus, by nature of the medium, we are limited by the extent to which we can interact with it, but the genre might not be the most conducive either.

Black Mirror: Bandersnatch was also brought up a couple of times, as it is virtually the same format as Choose Love, so it makes for a good comparison. Despite having the same limitations in what clips can be shown to you and a lack of agency in decisions, I find Bandersnatch much more satisfying in how the gameplay corresponds to the themes (at the risk of spoilers, I will try to not reveal too much). Choose Love makes it known that you can always change your mind, as Cami tells you during the fourth wall breaks, the nature of the undo button, and the option at the end to go back to the dream sequence, which is the only real decision that matters. All these factors cheapen the narrative because there are no consequences or bad endings. Bandersnatch, by virtue of its genre and themes, not only introduces consequences, but they are central to the outcome of the story. Firstly, Bandersnatch does not have an undo button, so the stakes of your choices feel much higher. Only after you die, reach an ending, or make a really important decision does it give you two options and ask if you’d like to go back and do that differently. And the decisions throughout impact your possible endings, not just one dream sequence. So by interacting, there is a way to get “good,” “bad,” and worse endings based on how you define the ambiguity, making you a much clearer agent in creating that alternate universe with this conclusion.

Not only is Choose Love simple in theme, but it’s also simple in structure. The rom-com genre has never been known to be super complicated and nuanced, so Choose Love does feed into the cheesiness while introducing new understandings of media through its technical capabilities in an approachable way, which has pros and cons for enjoyment. You can just let it play like a regular movie or be really invested in one outcome or guy, but the simplicity of creating limited agency makes viewers less invested and bored. What excited me about Bandersnatch and made me want to play with Choose Love was that the interactive nature was complex. It felt like multiple decisions led you to certain conclusions, and sometimes you were forced into making decisions you didn’t like, but that created high stakes, and as you make more decisions, you can see how that influences the world around you and your character. Similar to Choose Love, you, the spectator, do not have a physical form in this world, but you have influence over it by giving Cami advice and by puppet mastering Stefan in Bandersnatch. Like The Infectious Madness of Doctor Dekker, by how you interact with the choices, in Bandersnatch you can almost see an insanity meter rising and falling as your decisions lead you into worse and worse circumstances, i.e., “bad endings.” We have also discussed how genres and themes of solving mysteries, like in Immortality, are very conducive to an interactive format, likely because they give the user a goal to achieve; as you continue to interact and learn more, your experience changes; and most importantly, there are clear consequences for making bad decisions. These three aspects make a story compelling. Overall, I do believe that Choose Love is an enjoyable piece of media that people should try playing with, but by nature of the genre and themes, it might not feel as satisfying of an experience, in which case I might steer you toward Black Mirror: Bandersnatch to really understand how digital mediums interact with storytelling and what they could be.

– Lia

From its conception, Patchwork Girl is a pastiche of Frankenstein. It uses the world of Frankenstein to further explore the moral dilemmas such as what it means to be or own one’s body. It does so through the form of electronic literature, allowing a player to choose various paths that tell the story of Frankenstein’s female monster beyond the ending given to her in Frankenstein. 

Patchwork Girl is nothing if not true to its title. Composed of collages, vignettes, and excerpts, the amalgamation of works question what it means to have an identity in various ways and through various mechanisms. 

Narratively, the two most prominent discussions around the concept of identity occur through the body and the mind. 

In the section labeled “graveyard,” an image of the female monster’s body appears. By clicking on different body parts, text panels tell the story of each body part. Notably, these are not stories about her experiences with her own body. Instead, they are stories about the previous owners of these body parts, as they come from various women, men, and animals. While these body parts are originally not hers, they now collectively compose her body and operate under her control. 

This isn’t to say then that we are the sum of our parts (that the female monster’s personality is purely based off of the personalities of her body part’s previous owners), but rather that our parts assist us in further understanding society and thus, our own place within the world. Telling the stories of these disconnected body parts reflects the ways in which we absorb skills and perspectives of those around us to assemble and establish an identity of our own. 

It is through the stories of the different body parts that we come to understand how the female monster relates to her own body. The various body parts’ histories give her understanding of what other members of society have encountered. But, her own lived experiences and personality can choose to rely on or depart from those previous experiences — allowing her to define her body in a way that reflects who she intends to become. Thus, her appropriation of the physical parts of her body reflects her learned experiences in terms of social interactions and self understanding.

In the section labeled “Broken accents,” the female monster’s stream of consciousness is explicitly laid out. In this section, she delves into the idea of what composes her selfhood. 

Perhaps in the most introspective moment in the game, the female monster goes on to truly dissect what it means to be in the passage entitled “identities.” It reads: 

“‘Identities seem contradictory, partial, and strategic.’ 

‘There is not even such a state as ‘being’ female’. Or ‘being’ monster, or ‘being’ angel.’

‘We find ourselves to be cyborgs, hybrids, mosaics, chimeras.’”

Her own examination of philosophical thoughts proves her awareness and sentience. But her scrutiny over what it means to exist evolves into a humanist versus posthumanist debate. Originally in the passages presented to the player, it seems as if the female monster is arguing for her humanity and to have her personhood recognized as other members of society are recognized. She seems to have a little mermaid-like fascination to be part of the human world while making a case that she is no different from other people though she may appear different. However, it is in this passage where we realize that her comprehension of her identity goes further. While she is described as the female monster, she is neither female nor monster. This does not suggest the alternative to be true (a male human), but rather that conceptions of societally created categories are not sufficient to encompass everything the female monster is or is not. 

Here is where the idea of incomplete completeness takes its true form. Identities are not static, they are ever changing. How we interact with society, our own bodies, and our own minds change in and with every instance, every circumstance, and every situation we experience. These changes elevate us beyond presupposed categorizations and conditions. Instead, we exist as multitudes — as cyborgs, hybrids, mosaics, and chimeras. 

In its gameplay, Patchwork Girl includes a map of each sequence — explicitly showing how each hyperlink will bring the player to another page of text that will advance the narrative. The inclusion of a map allows the game to transform by facilitating directionless exploration. At any given point in the story, a player can forgo the linear branching-path nature of electronic literature and jump to another panel or section. 

Notably, this free exploration provides a player with an elevated level of interactivity with the game. Patchwork Girl already consists of a nonlinear narrative, and the nonlinear exploration only further distorts the story. Interactivity with Patchwork Girl therefore does not mainly occur through choosing which path to take when (although that is a form of interaction with the game), but rather outside of the game. The nonlinear exploration in a nonlinear narrative forces a player to patch together the bigger picture and underlying connections among the fragmented passages and consider various perspectives given to us. 

When Pathwork Girl examines what it means to have an identity, it doesn’t do so in a vacuum or only in respect to the female monster. In the end, Patchwork Girl is a work of literature that asks us to consider or even reconsider how we understand our own identity. The player is left wondering how different we truly are from the female monster the more we engage with solving the puzzle of her story. Afterall, are our bodies also not just a combination of different parts given to us by our ancestors and parents? Are we not also composed and influenced by our interactions with those around us? Are we not also technically incomplete, since we change as we grow and experience new things? Are we not also more than the sum of the categories we define ourselves with? 

Patchwork Girl is an exploration into how contradictions, fragmentations, incompleteness, and oddities create something whole — a game that leaves us understanding and accepting more about ourselves by the end of it.

-Aimee