What does it mean to "play" a video game?
Do we play a role within the game, as an actor? Do we play it as we do a movie, and experience it as an audience? Do we play a sport on the screen, as a competitor? Depending on the game, depending on individual taste, any number of answers ring more true than the next, but I know what is most valuable to me.
The best video games are "played" in the same way that one "plays" a song.
Super Mario 64 is the first video game I played as a kid, and if it is not still my favorite game today, it is the scale by which my favorite game will be judged.
A video game controller, like a musical instrument, is on its own little more than a strange contraption with no visually apparent practical use (perhaps especially for the Nintendo 64 controller). It is only through use of the object, following a set of instructions, that the beauty of the thing becomes clear. A video game, like a song, must be learned.
Only three notes make up the swirling improvised harmonies of Super Mario 64's composition; three buttons, the function of which could be summarily described by the verbs "Ascend", "Descend", and "Lunge". Following a burst of upward momentum the player could effortlessly transfer this kinetic energy into a forward dive. One action leads into another seamlessly; Super Mario 64 is a platformer with the combo variety and tight precision of a character action game.
Super Mario 64 transforms the controller into rhythmic percussion. A flick of the stick, the thumb tapdancing atop the A and B buttons. Mario shouts with delight as coins jingle and his enemies grunt and squeal. Like a free jazz, it is hectic, it is also under control.
And like free jazz, it is endlessly improvisational. From every instant that the player decides their movement, to the traversal of the stage, to the gradual uncovering of the castle's many paths, the player is constantly making choices on every possible level. The game only requires any combination of little more than half of its objectives to be cleared in order to see the end; what any individual has difficulty with can be passed over, and onto the next.
The levels both possess within themselves an apparent Dark Souls-ian spiral of interweaving paths, and contain unseen swooping one man rollercoasters which the player is left to carve for themselves. Many objectives simply exist as an object in the world, they can be collected in order as the game doles out hints, or collected at anytime an experienced player wishes. They can be collected by an intended exploration of a winding obstacle course, or the intended route can often be circumvented by a flashy display of electronic acrobatic prowess.
Super Mario 64 is not escapism, its plot is irrelevant, its world is made up of incongruous chunks accessed through painted interdimensional gateways. It can be played competitively, but it doesn't have to be. Not every song is an endless operatic epic, not everyone who picks up an instrument is a star or virtuoso. Why does the everyman play an instrument? To busk for change? In hopes that they will someday be recognized as genius? Maybe, but in the face of a lack of either meaningful monetary gain or critical approval, why does a normal person play a song for only themselves?
Perhaps because the actions, in and of themselves, are satisfying.
Do we play a role within the game, as an actor? Do we play it as we do a movie, and experience it as an audience? Do we play a sport on the screen, as a competitor? Depending on the game, depending on individual taste, any number of answers ring more true than the next, but I know what is most valuable to me.
The best video games are "played" in the same way that one "plays" a song.
Super Mario 64 is the first video game I played as a kid, and if it is not still my favorite game today, it is the scale by which my favorite game will be judged.
A video game controller, like a musical instrument, is on its own little more than a strange contraption with no visually apparent practical use (perhaps especially for the Nintendo 64 controller). It is only through use of the object, following a set of instructions, that the beauty of the thing becomes clear. A video game, like a song, must be learned.
Only three notes make up the swirling improvised harmonies of Super Mario 64's composition; three buttons, the function of which could be summarily described by the verbs "Ascend", "Descend", and "Lunge". Following a burst of upward momentum the player could effortlessly transfer this kinetic energy into a forward dive. One action leads into another seamlessly; Super Mario 64 is a platformer with the combo variety and tight precision of a character action game.
Super Mario 64 transforms the controller into rhythmic percussion. A flick of the stick, the thumb tapdancing atop the A and B buttons. Mario shouts with delight as coins jingle and his enemies grunt and squeal. Like a free jazz, it is hectic, it is also under control.
And like free jazz, it is endlessly improvisational. From every instant that the player decides their movement, to the traversal of the stage, to the gradual uncovering of the castle's many paths, the player is constantly making choices on every possible level. The game only requires any combination of little more than half of its objectives to be cleared in order to see the end; what any individual has difficulty with can be passed over, and onto the next.
The levels both possess within themselves an apparent Dark Souls-ian spiral of interweaving paths, and contain unseen swooping one man rollercoasters which the player is left to carve for themselves. Many objectives simply exist as an object in the world, they can be collected in order as the game doles out hints, or collected at anytime an experienced player wishes. They can be collected by an intended exploration of a winding obstacle course, or the intended route can often be circumvented by a flashy display of electronic acrobatic prowess.
Super Mario 64 is not escapism, its plot is irrelevant, its world is made up of incongruous chunks accessed through painted interdimensional gateways. It can be played competitively, but it doesn't have to be. Not every song is an endless operatic epic, not everyone who picks up an instrument is a star or virtuoso. Why does the everyman play an instrument? To busk for change? In hopes that they will someday be recognized as genius? Maybe, but in the face of a lack of either meaningful monetary gain or critical approval, why does a normal person play a song for only themselves?
Perhaps because the actions, in and of themselves, are satisfying.