Spectacled Spy's Sources and Significance

Scott McCloud and the Power of Closure in Comics.

I have been digging into the understanding of closure offered by Scott McCloud in his 1993 book, Understanding Comics, particularly the section of Chapter 3 titled, Blood in the Gutter. It’s essentially the explanation of how comics actually work at their very best and to be honest, it continues to be a very accurate explanation of what digital comics look like now and even with stories that are actually about emotions.

McCloud believes that the meaning of a comic does not lie inside the panels; it bursts out between them. These gutters compel the readers to engage in a bit of active listening, filling in mentally what comes next, what a character is thinking, how time is passing. That makes comics not just a picture book, but a complete participatory process in which we, the readers, get to co-create the meaning.

Closure as an Active Cognitive and Emotional Process

According to him, closure is the process of seeing the parts but seeing the whole (McCloud, 1993). That is, in plain words, to read between the frames, to feel the motion, cause-and-effect, and emotional continuity. It is a big deal in comics theory since it reminds us that what is drawn is not the end-all; what is imagined is more important.

The best thing about it is that closure can help on our brains as well as our hearts. When I find myself engaging in the calculations of what the gap suggests, I tend to fill in the emotion or motivation, sometimes even better than on the page. This is why comics can be so personal despite being stylised.

This is even more potent in digital comics. The delayed revelation, the scrolling, the manner in which the screen feeds you the next panel, leaves your brain working even harder to keep the emotion flowing. The framework created by McCloud allows understanding why a single pause, across several panels, or a close-up on a single expression, can rev the emotional payoff without another line of dialogue.

Emotional Weight and Panel Transitions

McCloud divides the transitions between panels into six types:

Moment-to-Moment

Action-to-Action

Subject-to-Subject

Scene-to-Scene

Aspect-to-Aspect

Non-Sequitur

Though we attribute that to an opportune tech tool, emotional fuel is equally essential.

The beat remains slow and the emotions heavy with moment to moment changes. Action to action is like gearing up to speed, and scene to scene requires a lot of imagination. According to Mccloud, Western comics tend to push toward the action elements, and Japanese manga relies on the slow, silent rhythm to dwell into mood and inner life.

This is particularly the case with the digital comics wave that brought in the manga vibes- more focus on silence, tone, and personal conditions. The take of McCloud is that creators can choose the extent to which they would delegate to the audience the work of emotion. The greater the gap, the greater the interpretive load, which typically gives rise to a more powerful emotional response.

The Question of Control and Reader Participation

The hand-off of narrative control is one of the most notable elements of the argument provided by McCloud. He questions the traditional author-centric mode of thought by turning us, the audience, into the active participants. The narrator does not present you with the finished script; you bargain meaning by reading it yourself.

This aligns with larger media thinking regarding audience agency, yet McCloud demonstrates it not simply by theorizing but by the mechanics of the medium itself. Closure is not an illusion; it is a technical requirement.

To creators, the big question is: how much do you reveal, and how much do you leave to us? McCloud does not impose a single set of rules, but his concepts encourage thoughtful restraint. Feelings tend to come in more strongly when you do not always stick out all the spelling and leave us to grapple with the uncertainty.

Weaknesses and Critiques of the McCloud Model

Although closing is celebrated, it is not perfect. The panel-transition table is a bit hard. Many comics, and particularly experimental or digital, do not fit into those categories because they mix types in unconventional ways.

In addition, the examples that McCloud uses are mostly print, so one might be tempted to question how his ideas can be applied to interactive or non-linear digital stories. The classic gutter notion is obfuscated by infinite canvas, panels that move, a pace controlled by the user. In those instances, closure disperses through scrolling, sound, or interactivity, rather than merely across the gap between panels.

That does not kill the point of McCloud. Rather, it demonstrates flexibility. Closure remains applicable since it does not depend on one format. The experience of filling gaps is what still fuels comics communication, whether you are on the paper page, or a tablet.

Applicability to Modern Practice

McCloud has much to say about closure, which forms a strong foundation in my own practice of digital comics and graphic storytelling. They support themselves with silence, repetition, and pacing as the elements of narration instead of stylistic flash. Emotional realism, I suppose, is the result of a well-pondered lack of detail, as opposed to an exact visual fidelity.

The act of leaving the reader to provide the emotional backdrop allows comics to be intimate and cinematic without exposition. The theories presented by McCloud make me understand why these strategies work and how I can refine them in a more thoughtful manner, rather than merely acting intuitively.

Conclusion

The closure presented by McCloud in Understanding Comics is one of the most influential and long-lasting works in comics theory. His emphasis on the gutter as a producer of meaning re-locates comics as an interactive practice in which emotions, time, and narrative are constructed by the creator and the reader.

Although the medium has changed much since the publication of the book, the concepts of the book, Blood in the Gutter, find an echo, particularly in digital comics. Closure is not lost to new technology; it simply changes. The framework by McCloud provides the means of analysis and the means of practical guidance on how comics move, feel, and pull us in.

Reference

McCloud, S. (1993) Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York: HarperCollins.

Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics is a foundational text for analysing how comics communicate meaning beyond written language. I focus particularly on Chapter 3, “Blood in the Gutter,” he goes into the concept of closure, how readers contribute strongly to bridging the gaps between panels.

That concept comes in incredibly handy to my personal digital comic work, where timing, quietness, and panel transitions are most essential in creating an emotional effect. McCloud’s breakdown of different transition types helps me understand how time, emotion, and movement can be manipulated visually rather than using dialogue.

What makes this text valuable is its ability to combine theory with clear visual examples, making complex ideas accessible. It challenges me to consider the reader as an active observer instead of a passive viewer, which is in full alignment with the way I create emotionally motivated, cinematic graphic stories.

2. McCloud, S. (2000) Reinventing Comics: The Art Form is Transforming Imagination and Technology. New York: HarperCollins.

In Reinventing Comics, McCloud extends his earlier ideas into the digital space, exploring how technology reshapes the form and distribution of comics. I narrowed down on the opening chapters of the discussion of the infinite canvas and the opportunities of screen based storytelling. This would be particularly the case since my course work has been preoccupied with digital comics and the book has challenged the notion that comics should remain restricted to the print format. McCloud is optimistic about the possibilities of a digital world, which inspires me to explore the possibilities of scrolling, pacing, and interacting with the readers.

Although some of his forecasts are somewhat idealistic these days, the fundamental concepts remain crucial in terms of consideration of how digital environments remake the narrative flow. The book helps me frame my own practice as part of an evolving medium rather than a static tradition.

3. Groensteen, T. (2007) The System of Comics. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi.

Thierry Groensteen’s The System of Comics provides a more formal and theoretical framework for understanding comics as a structured visual system. I focus on the opening chapter on the “spatio-topia” of comics, where Groensteen argues that meaning is created not just through sequence but through spatial relationships across the page.

This viewpoint assists me in studying layout, composition and rhythm in my own work particularly whenever I consider the pacing of the story in a cinematic manner. Even more dense than McCloud, who writes accessibly, the writing by Groensteen provides me with specific terms to be used when talking about the space communication through panels.

4. Eisner, W. (1985) Comics and Sequential Art. Tamarac, FL: Poorhouse Press.

The classic of Will Eisner is practical and bridging theory and hands on making, thus it is all in our make-as-you-learn class. I focused on the chapter of timing, in which Eisner details the manipulation of emotion, motion and narrative pacing in a visualized manner. His work on gesture, facial expression and exaggeration is directly applicable to my character-based work. Comics are treated as a form of performance by Eisner, and each of the panels is a beat in a scene.

This aligns with my approach to comics as cinematic and emotion based, and not necessarily realistic. The practical wisdom of the book justifies my creative instincts and predispositions, as well as provides the language to clarify the appeal of particular visual choices to readers.

5. Sousanis, N. (2015) Unflattening. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press.

Nick Sousanis combines comics with its argumentative power in the piece Unflattening, therefore, it is not only a readable story, but also a theoretical weapon. I narrowed down on the first chapter, where he criticizes the linear and text-based knowledge and celebrates the visual and multidimensional reasoning. The concept is very congruent with my practice since it casts comics as not just a way of telling stories, but also a means of exploring emotion and perception.

Visual metaphor and spatial reasoning are similar to my approach to internal states and emotional complexity in my job. The idea of unflattening is particularly inspiring as the boundaries between theory and practice are blurred, the meaning can be constructed visually and it is not only through the use of the conventional academic prose.

6. Chute, H. (2010) Graphic Women: Life Story and Modern Comics. New York: Columbia University Press.

Graphic Women by Hillary Chute is the analysis of the vulnerability of comics as the medium that best captures lived experience, memory, and emotional subjectivity. I address the introduction section where Chute claims that comics fragmented and layered storytelling and personal storytelling is made possible through the formal aspect of the comics. This is much applicable to what I am interested in emotional realism as opposed to the visual accuracy.

The text is valuable as it allows me to learn that even contradictory emotions and views can be put on the same page of a comic. It is a useful text to base emotional narrative on the basis of academic theory and to support the notion that exaggeration or stylisation is not a diminution of realism. Rather, it can enhance emotional truth, which is a direct support of my workforce character psychology.

7. Crepax, R., and Liu, M. (2024) Affective Fashion Trends: Aesthetic and Digital Affects of Nostalgia to AR. Fashion Theory, 127.

This article discuss the way affectual contemporary digital aesthetics are conditioned in terms of nostalgia, social media trends, and augmented reality. Despite the focus on fashion, this article has a lot of significance to digital comics and storytelling. I pay attention to their statement that digital media give more and more importance to the sense, and that aesthetic prompts are used to generate an emotional appeal.

It aided me in considering the manner in which the visual style, colour and texture of digital comics can produce affective response prior to narrative semantics being interpreted. The AR discussion is also related to more general issues of immersion and experience in the digital realm. This text stimulates me to judge my work not only on the clarity of the narration, but also on the emotional coloring and sensual impression.

8. Furniss, M. (2018) Affect and Embodied Meaning in Animation. New York: Bloomsbury Academic.

Maureen Furniss’ work examines how animation creates meaning through movement, rhythm, and embodiment. I focus on sections discussing how emotional response is generated through timing and motion rather than dialogue. It comes in handy especially in my practice where I tend to think of comics as films. Even though comics are fixed, the thoughts by Furniss enable me to see how implied movement and repetitive frames can bring embodied emotional experiences.

The text is an intersection of animation and affect theory in a manner that is easy to translate into graphic narratives. It promotes the notion that the emotional involvement is based on the movement and response of bodies, even when such movements are implied and not animated.

9. Manovich, L. (2001) Language of New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

The Language of New Media by Lev Manovich offers a basic framework of reading new media structures. I pay attention to his remarks on modularity and variability that describe the ability of digital content to be rearranged, repeated, and perceived in a different way by a user. This applies to the digital comics, particularly the scroll-based comics and interactive storytelling.

Manovich assists in placing my work in the larger context of digital media systems and makes me remember that form and interface determine the way stories are read. The book is not specific to comics, but it provides the necessary concepts when it comes to interpreting the impact of digital environments on narrative and reader engagement.

10. Jenkins, H. (2006) Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: NYU Press.

Convergence Culture by Henry Jenkins is about the active audiences in the creation of meaning in the media space. My focus is on the first chapter which talks about the way in which fans consume narratives in ways other than in their original form. This is useful for thinking about digital comics as part of a larger media ecosystem rather than isolated texts. Jenkins’ ideas support the notion that readers are not passive consumers, but collaborators in interpretation.

People keep asking, “Is the future virtual?” Like one day we’ll wake up and suddenly everything will be happening inside a headset. But the more interesting question isn’t whether the future will be virtual, it’s what kind of virtual future we’re actually building, and what gets lost when everything is pushed toward immersion and interactivity.

Extended Reality, or XR, which includes VR, AR, and MR, is often marketed as the next big emotional upgrade to digital media. More presence. More realism. More engagement. But immersion alone doesn’t automatically mean meaning. And interactivity doesn’t always make experiences better.

What Virtual Reality Does Well (and What It Doesn’t… Yet)

At its best, VR is great at placing you somewhere else. It gives you scale, perspective, and a strong sense of presence. You can stand in impossible spaces, move through digital worlds, and interact with environments in ways flat screens can’t offer.

But VR still struggles with context. You might feel like you’re “there,” but you don’t always feel emotionally grounded in why you’re there. VR can simulate space, but it can’t fully simulate lived experience, memory, or social nuance. Being inside a world is not the same as understanding it.

This is why a lot of early VR experiences feel impressive for five minutes and then empty. The tech works, but the emotional layer doesn’t always arrive.

Immersion and Interactivity: Not the Same Thing

Immersion is about feeling present. Interactivity is about being able to act. XR tries to combine both, but they don’t automatically support each other.

You can be deeply immersed in a space and still feel disconnected. You can interact with objects and still feel emotionally uninvolved. Meaning doesn’t come from control alone, it comes from structure, intention, and pacing.

This is where light theory helps. Even basic media theory reminds us that emotional engagement isn’t just about sensory input, but about how experiences are framed and interpreted. XR gives tools, not guarantees.

When Everything Becomes Virtual: Theme Parks as an Example

Theme parks are a great example of this tension. There’s been a lot of talk about making theme park experiences virtual or hybrid, where rides, environments, and attractions can be accessed digitally from anywhere.

On paper, it sounds exciting. No queues. No travel. Infinite worlds.

But theme parks work because they’re physical, social, and shared. The heat, the noise, the anticipation, the awkward waiting, the collective excitement. These things matter. When you make theme parks fully virtual, you risk stripping away the messy, human parts that actually make them memorable.

A virtual theme park might look spectacular, but it can feel emotionally flat. It becomes content instead of experience.

Meta, the Metaverse, and Overpromising Presence

The collapse of hype around Meta’s Metaverse is another good example. It promised connection, embodiment, and community. What people mostly got were empty digital rooms, awkward avatars, and a strong sense of disconnection.

The problem wasn’t just the tech. It was the assumption that immersion equals meaning. That if people are placed in the same virtual space, emotional connection will automatically follow.It doesn’t work like that.

Spirited Away - Taken Away...

Let’s imagine using XR to “enhance” a masterpiece I love: Spirited Away.

Image source: IMDB

The film works because of its pacing, quiet moments, emotional ambiguity, and character-focused storytelling. Now imagine turning it into a VR experience where you can freely explore the bathhouse, interact with characters, and roam the world without narrative guidance.

Visually? Amazing. Emotionally? Risky.

By turning the film into a space to explore, you risk losing what made it powerful. The emotional journey becomes optional. The silence becomes background noise. The story becomes environment.

This is how XR can ruin something. Not by doing too little, but by doing too much.

So… Is the Future Virtual?

Probably, in some form. But that doesn’t mean everything should be.

XR is incredible for certain experiences. Training. Simulation. Design. Play. But when it comes to emotional storytelling, subtlety matters. Some media works precisely because you can’t control it. Because you’re guided, restricted, and emotionally carried.

The future doesn’t need to turn every meaningful experience into an interactive one.

Conclusion

XR and AI are powerful tools, but they don’t automatically improve media. Immersion doesn’t guarantee emotion. Interactivity doesn’t guarantee connection. And virtual presence doesn’t replace physical, social, and narrative context.

The danger isn’t a dystopian future where everything is virtual. The danger is a future where we forget why certain media worked in the first place.

Some of the media are so striking that you never get to think it through. It is a shock in advance, in advance of your being able to name it. Such is the entire purpose of affect. It is not the neat, name tagged affections we all bumble with like happiness or sadness. It is a more of a rush or a charge that rushes past you before you can get to explaining it.

Gregg and Seigworth discuss affect as an ability to affect, as well as to be affected, one that travels between bodies, images, sounds and space (Gregg and Seigworth, 2009). Affect is relational. It is not encased in the media object or the head of the viewer. It happens in the in-between. It makes digital media so potent in the sense that the media is an affective playground that screens, sound, movement, scale, and interactivity all collide against one another as though something is being touched, yet nothing is being touched.

To discuss further on how this works, I’m taking Interstellar (2014), this film shows that affect does not have to scream or be obvious to be intense.

Affect Is Not Emotion

One important thing affect theory makes clear is that affect is not the same as emotion. Emotion is what we name after something happens. Affect is what happens before naming. Gregg and Seigworth describe affect as intensity rather than representation (2009). It’s ongoing, unstable, and always in motion.

Spinoza famously wrote that no one has yet determined what the body can do (Spinoza, 2002). Affect theory builds on this idea. Media does not just represent feelings. It activates bodily responses. Tightness. Stillness. Discomfort. Longing. These responses are not always readable, but they are powerful.

Affect in Interstellar

Interstellar works affectively because it prioritises sensation over explanation. The film constantly plays with time, distance, and absence. Time dilation is not just a scientific concept in the film. It becomes emotional pressure. When years pass in minutes, the audience feels loss in a compressed, almost unbearable way.

Image credits: IMDB

Sound dominates here. The music composed by Hans Zimmer is loud, repetitive, and heavy. It does not evoke sensations gently, but rather forces them. The same care is taken with silence. Space is vacant, cold, lonely. Narrative clarity subsides before these sensory decisions in the pumping up of affective tension.

Manovich believes that the digital media creates new positions of subjectivity in terms of intensity and affective interactions instead of narrative (Manovich, 2001). Interstellar corroborates that notion. Interstellar fits into this idea perfectly. The film doesn’t always want you to understand what’s happening. It wants you to feel the scale of it.

The Sense of Scale and The Vulnerability

Visually, Interstellar constantly places the human body against massive environments. Planets. Black holes. Endless space. This creates a feeling of fragility. Humans feel small, temporary, and exposed.

However, the movie does not seem emotionally detached. It does the opposite. The smaller the human beings are the more their emotional attachment is attached. Love, guilt, regret are the sole variables that come into significance in a universe that is indifferent.

That is why the affect theory is concerned with relationality. People are not influenced by isolated topics. It entails bodies in a relation to forces, environment and other bodies (Gregg and Seigworth, 2009).

What Affect Actually Does

Affect is not a means of explaining meaning. It drags you into a condition not giving a neat message. According to Sara Ahmed, emotions do not passively, but rather match your body with ideas, spaces, values more based on intensity than logic (Ahmed, 2004).

Image credits: The scene that affects

In Interstellar, affect aligns the viewer with loss, waiting, and emotional endurance. You may not fully understand the physics, but you understand the feeling of time slipping away. Affect turns abstract ideas into lived sensations.

This is why affect is so effective in digital media. It works before critique. Before distance. Before interpretation.

Conclusion

Interstellar demonstrates the power of affect, which is not representational. The film captures the interest of the emotions without excessive explanations with the help of sound, scale, pacing and silence. Affect moves first. Meaning lands later.

Affect is not a matter of telling you what to feel. It is about creating the circumstances where it becomes impossible not to feel. That makes Interstellar more than just a sci-fi movie, it is a heartfelt film that imparts into your flesh even after you turn the television off.

References

Ahmed, S. (2004) The Politics of Emotion Culture. New York: Routledge.

Gregg, M. and Seigworth, G.J. (2009) The Affect Theory Reader. Durham: Duke University Press.

Manovich, L. (2001) The Language of New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Whenever someone discuss race and gender on the media, the discussion will always tend to go in either way as to whether people are doing right or wrong. To me the newer angle has always been: how do I steal these ideas into mine?

I do not perceive identity like a tick box as a comic creator. I think of it as a sort of involuntary occurrence when you are struggling to create characters that are realistic, untidy, and emotionally real.

Considering Race and Gender

In the design of characters, I am conscious of race and gender. I would like my characters to be different, not as the clones with fresh clothes. That is why sometimes it is necessary to remain near to reality, sometimes it is better to add some twist that will make them feel fresh.

Image description: My OC comic character

That being said, I tend to make my characters racially and culturally ambiguous. This is not evading responsibility; rather, it is creating space to dig in on my part. I also enjoy the fact that many of the population can identify themselves in my characters and not feel excluded by overly restrictive categorizations.

The ambiguity allows me to be creative, at the same time, demonstrating the variety in appearance and atmosphere. I tend to create fun, interesting, and unique characters as opposed to canned ones.

What I Avoid (For Now)

I have also places where I take my steps. I am also not completely confident in writing child characters or placing groups on top that could attract a lot of opposition in crime or dark fiction. It has nothing to do with fear, but integrity. I am still not confident enough in the histories and sensitivities surrounding those identities.

It does not imply that I will not ever deal with them. I see it as a learning curve. I will not be shy about it once I learn to depict these characters in a responsible and meaningful manner. Up to that point I would prefer not to take a break instead of ruining it.

Gender as Fluid, Not Forced

Gender in my work is fluid. Physically speaking characters are what they are but mentally and emotionally they are not confined by rigid rules. Strong, weak, anarchy, tender, confident and fearful, all these are comfortably placed over characters regardless of their gender. I do not erase gender, nor do I confine characters in it.

Image description: My OC comic character

When stereotypes come up, I rephrase them in my manner. I would prefer to avoid tropes, but twist them until they become more human and less predictable. Above all, emotional weakness cannot be compromised. In any gender, emotion is the core of my narration.

Emotion Comes First

Emotion is one of the few things that characterize my work more than others. It is the essence of my comic creation. No characters, regardless of race or gender, are constructed on the outside. I am more concerned with what a character is feeling, the way he is thinking and the way he is breaking than how he presents himself as correct on the outside.

Image description: Addressing a streotype

The universal vibes are anxiety, guilt, desire, overthinking, emotional spiral. When they are dealt with in an honest way, identity does not become performative. This ambiance correlates to the fact proposed by Stuart Hall that identity is not defined but constructed by means of representation and meaning (Hall, 1997). Identity, in my instance, emerges in the form of emotional behaviour and not labels.

Proficiency, Education, and Development.

As far as race and culture are concerned, I would strike the right chord in order to be respectful. I am not obsessed with hyper-realism but I am concerned that cultures are not falsified and flattened into mere appearances. My education on other races and cultures has already changed my thinking in some ways and frankly speaking it has been a change toward the right way.

I have learned to be more aware, more curious and more ready to challenge my own assumptions. In the future, I would like to become more confident in the application of gender tropes, become more culturally accurate, and believe in myself to approach identity with more care than fear.

Conclusion

Having taken a glimpse at the comics nowadays, particularly those that Gen-Z is attracted to, identity is not such a veil any longer. It’s front and center. Comics is not all about heroes rescuing cities, but people facing relationships, gender, sexuality, and emotional confusion. Identity is now a story in itself not a label pinned on a character.

This is important since, according to Stuart Hall, representation is not merely a reflection of reality, on the contrary, it, in fact, constructs meaning, due to repetition of images and stories (Hall, 1997). Comics do not simply represent characters; they define the way we perceive what type of people are important, who deserves attention and the ones who remain in the background.

The Politics of Identity in Comics Are Biased.

Conventionally, the mainstream Western comics were operated by an extremely limited range of identities: straight, male, physically strong, emotionally controlled heroes were the norm. Other characters existed but most of the time they were brought out as side characters, stereotypes or coded subtext rather than fully formed individuals.

Image Credits: Greek Girl Authority

Hall describes the way the representation is achieved in terms of systems of meaning. Once these identities are repeated a few times, they begin to think of themselves as normal and a few as unusual or anomalous. This repetition in comics created a narrow concept of who was capable of being a hero.

That is much more conscious to gen-z readers. They rebel against a one-dimensional portrayal and insist on the characters that are emotionally rich, culturally unique, and visible without being oversimplified into a single characteristic.

The Early History of LGBTQ+ in Comics.

The first defined LGBTQ+ scene in contemporary mainstream comics has been commonly identified with Northstar, an Alpha Flight character that at the time (1992) was revealed to be gay (Marvel Comics, 1992). Previously the only queer characters had been implied and subtextual areas but the advent of Northstar signified an end of the coded representation of queer characters and their open visibility.

Image source: Marvel Comics

At the time even identity was respected. It was represented as something unveiled as opposed to it being ordinary. That demonstrates the existence of early LGBTQ+ representation but within stringent cultural restrictions to define how queer identity could be presented in mainstream comics.

Aesthetic Standards and the Generation Z Comic Style.

The visual identity manifestation is one of the things that can be distinguished about the newer comics and manga. Obsession with hyper-realistic anatomy is less and there is more emphasis on expression, body language, fashion and mood. Characters may appear fatigued, clumsy, nervous, tender, or disorganized - human.

The Ways of Seeing by John Berger teaches us that the presentation of bodies is always ideological (Berger, 1972). Stylisation is a significant decision in the comics. A more fluid or simplified style is able to convey identity with greater sincerity than refined realism.

This is the reason why Gen-Z audiences tend to be more relatable to expressive and emotional art forms as opposed to hyper-perfect superhero aesthetics.

Yuri and Yaoi in mainstream Manga.

Yuri and Yaoi / Boys’ Love have been significant locations of queer in manga. The most popular ones are some of the most famous ones that belong to tremendously popular franchises.

Sailor Neptune and Sailor Uranus of Sailor Moon were among the first lesbian relationships of mainstream anime and manga. Their romance was put forward as natural and assertive though it was censored or modified in a few international releases. This was, to many readers and viewers, a kick-off version of queer identity existing in an open mainstream narrative world.

Image Source: Sailor Moon

On the Yaoi, series such as Banana Fish have a more emotionally anchored representation of Boys’ Love. Ash as well as the relationship between Ash and Eiji is at the heart of the story, developed on the basis of trust, vulnerability, and intimacy instead of romance. This demonstrates that queer representation is constructible by emphasizing emotion and prioritizing narrative even in the case where it is not explicitly identified.

Image Source: Banana Fish

Western Comics and Mainstream Queer Heroes.

More LGBTQ+ representation has also become more visible in western comics over the last few years. Batwoman (Kate ⁻ -Kane), a DC Comics character and a bisexual woman openly, is one such step towards making queerness a core aspect of a character and not a coming out narrative.

However, even more recently, graphic novels such as Heartstopper are making the rounds widely among Gen -Zs due to their tenderness and emotional honesty. The novel is centered on the mundane, minor details, and inner emotions instead of drama. There is natural identity that is unexplained.

In all these instances, the aesthetic schemes are alike, close framing, expressive faces, slow pacing, emotion-based stories, not spectacle-driven.

The Question of Identity in Representation.

Representation is important since it determines what is possible to feel. Once particular identities manifest themselves in a repetitive and meaningful way, they cease to seem special and begin to seem ordinary.

According to Berger, repetitive modes of perception determine the way viewers make sense of themselves and others (Berger, 1972). In the case of Gen-Z readers, comics are the places where identity can be discussed safely, without explaining and without emotionality. Yuri and Yaoi formats and newer western comics establish emotional spaces in which the reader of the comic can feel acknowledged, not instructed.

This change demonstrates that representation does not only concern inclusion. It’s about narrative focus. Who gets emotional depth? Who gets softness? Who has the privilege to be puzzled without being as well punished?

Conclusion

The identity in comics is not a superficial feature. It is created by visual style, narrative rhythm and repetition. Applying the theory of representation by Stuart Hall and the thoughts of John Berger regarding the visual culture, one can see that comics have actively contributed to making the concept of identity.

Starting early and cautious representation such as Northstar, to mainstream manga exemplification such as Sailor ⁻ Moon, and more recent Gen-Z favorites such as Heartstopper, representation is no longer marginal and controlled, but rather emotionally central. Comics are not simply identifying anymore. They are in the process of re-inventing it.

References

Berger, J. (1972) Ways of Seeing. London: Penguin.

Hall, S. (1997) Representation: Cultural Representations and Signifying Practices. London: Sage.

Marvel Comics (1992) Alpha Flight #106. New York: Marvel Comics.

Takeuchi, N. (1991) Sailor Moon. Tokyo: Kodansha.

Oseman, A. (2019) Heartstopper. London: Hachette Children’s Group.

Yoshida, A. (1985) Banana Fish. Tokyo: Shogakukan.

Who’s the first character that comes to your mind when I say “a guy in a red suit with web patterns”? Yes, the answer is obviously Spider-Man. You don’t even need to think about it. That’s how iconic he is. There’s something about Spider-Man that just clicks. He’s not the richest, strongest, or most perfect hero, but he feels relatable. He messes up, overthinks, carries guilt, and still shows up anyway.

Image credits: Marvel

That’s why even something as simple as his mask hits so hard. It’s iconic, but it carries way more meaning than it lets on. So I’m taking a step back and looking at the Spider-Man mask through a semiotic lens, breaking down how its meaning is built, what role it plays for the character, and how a lot of that meaning has been hiding in plain sight while we’ve all just accepted it as part of the vibe.

Semiotics simply refers to the art of studying signs and the creation of meaning using signs. Media stuffs do not merely demonstrate, they actually influence the way in which we acquire ideas in the form of culture and repetitions. The Spider-Man mask is an indication that carries a lot more than a cool look.

Signifier and Signified:

The Construction of Meaning. According to Ferdinand de Saussure, a sign consists of two parts: signifier that is the physical object that we observe, and the signified that is the idea which is represented by the signifier (Saussure, 1983). The signifier in this instance is the mask itself: the red paint, the web design, and such enormous eyes.

Image credits: Wikipedia

The largest one is Spider -man as a superhero. However, that is not the end of the meaning. Anonymity, responsibility and emotional restraint are other culturally related elements to which the mask rolls up. Putting it on, Peter Parker is no longer himself. He turns into a symbol. The dichotomy of his personal and his professional identity is the main clue to the mask acting as a sign.

Denotation, Connotation and Emotional Meaning.

At the denotation level, mask is merely an identity hiding costume. That’s the literal angle. The meaning is more emotional and ideological at the connotation level. The mask alludes to sacrifice, secrecy and isolation. It implies that it is sometimes better to do what is right and remain unnoticed. These connotations are not pronounced directly, but beaten to death by movies, comics, and so on.

Here, the eyes on the mask are big. They’re expressive but fake. They move and act, but never do spill all the emotion. This provides diminution between the audience and the inner realm of the character. We do feel what Spider-Man is experiencing, though we do not actually see it. That visual boundary is reflective of the position of the character emotionally: alive, dynamic but concealed within oneself.

Iconic, Symbolic, and Indexical Functions

Charles Sanders Peirce categorises signs into three main types: iconic, symbolic, and indexical (Peirce, 1931–1958). The Spider-Man mask operates across all three at once.

It is iconic because the spider imagery visually resembles the source of the character’s powers. It is symbolic because we have learned through culture and repetition that the mask represents heroism and responsibility. It is also indexical because its appearance signals action, danger, or moral obligation. When the mask appears, something serious is about to happen. The strength of the object lies in how these modes overlap rather than function separately.

Image Source: Sony Animations

Roland Barthes describes myth as a second layer of meaning that makes cultural ideas feel natural and unquestionable (Barthes, 1977). The Spider-Man mask operates strongly at this level, but its myth is less about secrecy and more about responsibility. As Stan Lee famously suggested, “anybody can wear the mask” (Stan Lee, 2010). Being Spider-Man is not just about having powers, it’s about choosing to take responsibility.

It is not only the plot or appearance of Spider-Man mask. Semiotically, it allows the character to be someone and everyone at the same time. The mask also helps the character to be easier to identify with by covering the face. Anyone could be behind it.

It is such flexibility that makes the mask culturally powerful. It discusses weakness, guilt and emotional control without being explicit about it. The object is effective in that its meanings are accumulated, culturally acquired and emotive.

Conclusion

The Spider-Man mask reveals the fact that even the most basic media object can be encumbered with meaning. The mask disseminates concepts of identity, responsibility and sacrifice through signifier and signified, denotation and connotation, icon, symbol, index, and myth. Its meanings are not screamed out. They’re quietly woven in. And it is that silence, which makes the object so efficient.

References

As an aspiring wannabe famous comic artist, My comics have always started from a very personal place. I’ve always been drawn to stories that happens in the real world, with real locations, real emotions, and recognisable situations, but flows in a very cinematic way. That doesn’t mean I don’t like fantasy, I love that too but as a creator what I want to create is the kind of story where the audience could relate and see a part of themselves. I want my stories to feel real even if something supernatural is happening. I want everything to feel intense. A glance that lasts too long. A thought that makes the mind spiral. A normal moment that also feels dramatic and engaging. That’s the space I like working in.

Image Source: My Original Comic

From the outside, my work might not look realistic. The characters look cartoony/sketchy, expressions are exaggerated, and some moments feel slightly surreal. But underneath that, the story is grounded. It’s rooted in reality. Just not the “everything is calm and logical” kind of reality. More like the emotional, messy, overthinking kind.

What Realism Actually Means to Me

When people talk about realism, they usually mean accuracy. Does it look real? Is the anatomy correct? Is the lighting believable? My work does build on those things. Locations feel real. Characters are proportioned in a way that feels human. The world follows clear rules.

But for me, realism is not about copying reality. It’s about relatability. Something normal, familiar, or honest. Even if the expressions are exaggerated or the framing feels dramatic, the emotions underneath are very human.

Theorists like André Bazin talk about realism not just as visual accuracy, but as a way of capturing lived experience. In comics, that experience doesn’t need to look realistic to actually feel real.

Cinematic Movement in a Real World

One thing I’m very intentional about is how my comics is paced and how they move. Even though they’re static images, I think about them like scenes in a film. Camera angles change. Close-ups linger. Panels stretch moments longer than real time while also trying to show movement between every panels. This is where realism and cinema blend together in my work.

Image Source: My Original Comics

Scott McCloud talks about how comics control time through panel transitions, allowing artists to slow down or speed up moments however they want. I use that a lot. A single emotional beat might take up multiple panels. A small reaction can feel huge. That’s not realistic in a literal sense, but is still emotionally accurate.

In real life, moments don’t always move evenly. Some seconds feel endless. Some pass instantly. My comics try to reflect that internal experience rather than external realism.

Stylisation, Exaggeration, and Emotional Truth

My art style leans toward a look inspired from anime and manga, especially when it comes to expressions and body language, My characters stretch, overreact, or even look slightly unhinged. That’s not me abandoning realism. That’s just me being stupid and translating emotion in a visually appealing way.

Image Description: Exaggerated imagery used for visual appeal

Behaviour in my comics can be exaggerated, but it’s still human. People overthink. People act irrationally. People dramatize things in their heads. If anything, pushing expressions and reactions makes the work feel more real and honest, not less.

This lines up with the idea that realism in visual storytelling doesn’t have to mean restraint. Sometimes exaggeration is what makes emotion readable. Especially in comics, where subtle realism can actually hide feeling instead of revealing it.

AI, Realism, and Why Perfect Images Don’t Impress Me Anymore

AI has definitely changed how I think about realism. Not because it replaces my work, but because it made something clear. When realism becomes easy, it becomes less meaningful. AI is really good at generating polished, believable images. But a lot of the time, those images feel empty.

Where AI actually helps me is with surrealism. It’s useful for visualising strange moods, distorted spaces, or ideas that don’t exist in real life. It feeds the imagination rather than defining the final result.

AI pushed me further away from chasing perfect realism and closer to valuing imperfection, subjectivity, and emotional intent. Things that feel human often don’t look perfect. They look awkward, exaggerated, or slightly off. And that’s exactly what I want in my work.

So, How Real Is My Work Really?

My comics strike directly to the heart. The emotions are absolutely genuine, those that get into your chest and do not leave it. Even when things become out of control, the world continues to roll on its own. Characters may be mad, melodramatic or completely insane--simply human, truly. Humans do not always remain relaxed when feelings get accumulated and I feel my characters ought to demonstrate that messiness but not to avert it.

But aesthetically I allowed the gaze to change a little. It becomes a little cartoonish and faces are distorted, and there are moments when it is surreal. Not in order to avoid reality, but to store the experience of the reality. In my case, I find realism as having nothing to do with making things look just the way they should be. It is the act of putting the inside of someone’s head to paper. When a panel is dramatic, clumsy, or somehow too garish, that is the intention.

Image Description: Characters from my Comics

I am much more interested in characters than in plot mechanics. The real question that concerns me is what they are thinking, what they are keeping a secret, and when they break a little. It is that emotional accumulation that is the story.

Every character in my work is their own person, but they also carry something familiar. Fear, guilt, loneliness, desire, overthinking, self-doubt. All the fun stuff we pretend we don’t feel but absolutely do. They’re specific, but relatable, and that’s where the realism lives for me.

They are particular, yet familiar and there the realism is to me. When a person reads my comic and says, “yeah, And I felt that, then I have won. Although the visuals may be over the top or filmic, the emotion behind it is sincere.

Image Description: A page filled with emotions

And that’s where my comics sit. It is the real world, the world with real emotions, but only filtered through a slightly dramatic, slightly mad, all cinema-loving, lens.

References

Nearly all the stuff that we view and read in the media seems as a replica of something we have watched previously. The scene is recognizable, the character is a remix or a joke is just lying dead because you know the reference. It is not an accident, that’s called intertextuality.

According to Julia Kristeva, intertextuality is nothing more than representing meaning that bounces between the texts and the signs are passed on and twisted, rather than being created by a single source (Kristeva,  1980). Essentially, there is nothing existing in a vacuum; meaning cannot be a unibrowed phenomenon.

Conscious Intertextuality: When the Reference Is Intentional

Conscious intertextuality happens when creators know exactly what they’re referencing. The connection is deliberate. It’s placed there to be noticed, recognised, and understood by the audience. According to Kristeva, such intertextuality is beyond the control of the writer and is influenced by the broader noise and norms.

As an example, even the blockbusters that are trying to be fresh, stick to the old hero on journeys, emotional appeals, and look-n-feel. Such parallels are not necessarily intentional- they are simply there because the creators are working off old systems of meaning. The intertextual vibe tends to be unobtrusive and intangible, but it nonetheless guides our interpretation of the narrative.

This substantiates the concept presented in this lecture that meaning is never fixed. It is never singular, solid, but rather built up by the help of previous texts and not made out of nothing.

Conscious Intertextuality: References, Parody, and Awareness.

Conscious intertextuality occurs when authors make a deliberate mention of other works. They are intended to occur and presuppose a media-sophisticated audience. Kristeva calls this a less banal sense of intertextuality where the sources are explicitly referred to and used in games.

Parody

The most apparent piece of conscious intertextuality is parody. It borrows the typical tropes, inflates them, and makes jokes on them. Consider Deadpool: it goes all the way into parody, by literally breaking the fourth wall and referencing superhero tropes. The joke takes place only when you are familiar with the superhero grind. The no stealth operation of parody is all being caught by the audience.

References and Easter Eggs

The citations are less obtrusive. They are visual nods, the poses and dialogues echoes that reward the attentive viewers without halting the story. Easter eggs go even further by concealing these allusions in the background, prompting replay, taking a break and discussion with fans.

Both allusions and Easter eggs belong to conscious intertextuality. The artist is aware that they exist, but the question is how conspicuous they are supposed to be.

Author to Reader: Who Makes Meaning?

The vibe of death of the author by Roland Barthes finds its way home. Meanings, he says, are not the secret ingredient of the chef; they are cooked up by the readers in their interpretation.

Intertextuality inverts power and authority into the hands of the audience. That is why they are effective with references, parodies, and Easter eggs. The meaning is only valid when the audience identifies it and puts it into action. By doing so, intertextuality becomes spectatorial participatory.

Why This Matters

The difference between conscious and unconscious intertextuality assists us in observing the manner in which media activities in culture take place. Conscious intertextuality is pleasurable in that there is recognition of the presence and unconscious intertextuality unravels the influence of deep-seated conventions on creativity.

The two of them confront concepts of originality and authorship. When all the texts are made by others, then creativity becomes recombination and not invention.

Conclusion

Intertextuality works at various levels. In some cases media is fully aware of what it is doing and leaves references, parody and Easter eggs that the fans can find. In other occasions meaning appears involuntarily in collective pattern of culture and hereditary forms.

The application of Kristeva theory and the attention to the reader as Barthes is concerned with give way to the realization that meaning is not created by the media. The meaning comes out of motion, identification, and meaning. Everything is no longer a lone wolf, and this is precisely what makes the modern media so interesting.

References

Barthes, R. (1967) ‘The Death of the Author’. Aspen, no. 5–6.

Image Source: The Boba Culture

Introduction:

Since my childhood, I was always fascinated by superhero films in general. It started simple. Spider-Man. Then Hulk. Then Iron Man and Captain America. And then boom. That was it. My life genuinely never stayed the same after that. What started as just watching cool characters with powers slowly became something bigger. These stories didn’t end when the movie ended. They followed me into other films, comics, conversations, and honestly, my imagination.

At that point, I didn’t have the words to explain why these characters felt so present. I just knew they didn’t live in one place. Looking back now, that early attachment is important, because transmedia franchises rely heavily on emotional entry points to pull audiences in and keep them engaged long-term.

What Transmedia Storytelling Actually Means

Transmedia storytelling is when a story is spread across multiple media platforms, but not in a repetitive way. Each medium adds something new instead of retelling the same thing again. Henry Jenkins describes this through the idea of additive comprehension, where every platform deepens the audience’s understanding of the story world (Jenkins, 2006).

Image source: DC

Marvel and DC fit this idea well. You can watch only the films and still enjoy them, but once you start reading comics or recognizing references, the world feels way deeper. The story doesn’t live in one text. It lives across many.

Films as the Main Entry Point

In Marvel especially, films act as the entrance to the universe. They establish the big events, shared timelines, and moments that most people recognize. Movies like “The Avengers” are made so anyone can jump in without needing much background, and that accessibility is a big reason why they work so well.

Image source: IMDB

At the same time, this accessibility also has it’s own limits. Films need to stay familiar, clear, and marketable. They rarely take the same narrative risks that other media does. So while films anchor the transmedia world, they also simplify it.

Comics as a Space for Expansion

That’s where comics come in. Comics give Marvel and DC way more freedom to go deeper and get a bit messy. They reboot things, reset timelines, contradict themselves, and try out ideas that would never survive a big blockbuster movie. Characters like Spider-Man or Batman have multiple variations at the same time, and each one adds something different and has depth.

Comics expand the universe sideways rather than forward. They build depth instead of closure. However, this also raises a critical point. If comics contain more complex or experimental storytelling, but films dominate popular culture, then not all parts of the transmedia system carry the same weight. Some audiences get richer experiences than others.

Marvel vs DC: Control and Chaos

Marvel and DC approach transmedia differently. Marvel tends to keep tighter control over its shared universe, especially in film. DC, on the other hand, embraces fragmentation. Its comics regularly reset continuity, and its films often feel disconnected from each other. Batman alone exists in multiple versions that do not try to align.

Image Source: Reddit

This flexibility makes DC characters feel more like modern myths than fixed versions of one character. At the same time, it can get confusing. Instead of the story slowly coming together, it can start to feel overwhelming. Transmedia here becomes less about clear storytelling and more about trying to figure out how all the different versions fit together.

The Role of the Audience

Both franchises depend heavily on active audiences. Fans are expected to recognize references, connect timelines, and understand that no single text contains the full story. Jenkins describes this as a shift from passive consumption to active participation, where audiences assemble meaning across platforms (Jenkins, 2006).

Image source: Fandom.com

That participation can be exciting, but it also creates pressure. Keeping up with transmedia franchises can start to feel like work. If you miss a film or a comic, it can feel like you’re already behind. In that way, transmedia starts to blur the line between enjoying something and feeling like you have to keep up.

Transmedia in a Post-Medium World

Marvel and DC also reflect how media works today. Stories no longer belong in one format. The Characters move freely across films, comics, streaming platforms, and fandoms. This fits with what Rosalind Krauss described as a post-medium condition, where boundaries between media are no longer strict (Krauss, 1999).

In these huge franchises, this blending isn’t just creative. It’s also strategic. Each platform is another way to grab attention and makes the audience consume more of it. This is when transmedia becomes both, a storytelling method and also a business model.

Does It Still Work?

The answer is obvious, YES!. Even with all these tensions, Marvel and DC still work. Not because they are perfect, but because they understand how people get attached to worlds and characters over time. What started for me with Spider-Man and Hulk turned into a long-term relationship with these universes.

Marvel and DC are transmedia not just because they’re everywhere, but because they encourage you to move between platforms, compare different versions, and stay connected over time. The whole system can be messy, sometimes overwhelming, and definitely not always fair. But that messiness is also what keeps these worlds feeling alive.

References

Jenkins, H. (2006) Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: New York University Press.

This week I visited Oxford with my camera, I wasn’t thinking about theory. I was just reacting to the vibe. The place didn’t feel like a normal city — it felt constructed, like every turn was doing something to me. The more I walked, the clearer it became that Oxford doesn’t function as a collection of buildings. It functions as a total experience. That’s when the term clicked — Gesamtkunstwerk (Wagner, 1849).

Basically, Gesamtkunstwerk means a “total work of art” — where different elements like space, sound, movement, and narrative all come together into one immersive thing (Wagner, 1849). While this concept is usually discussed through opera or later immersive media, walking through Oxford made me feel like architecture was already doing this for centuries. You don’t just observe Oxford — you enter it, move through it, and become part of it. Wagner talks about the spectator being “transplanted onto the stage,” and honestly, that’s exactly what happened here (Wagner, 1849).

Location: High St. Oxford

Material, Scale, and Spatial Experience:

What makes Oxford work isn’t that everything looks the same — because it doesn’t. You’ve got Gothic next to Baroque next to Neo-Classical. But the material, scale, and layout keep everything feeling connected. The constant use of Cotswold limestone smooths over historical differences, while consistent building heights and narrow street widths control how space is perceived. This supports the idea that immersion is not just visual, but spatial and bodily, something later theorists associate with experiential media rather than static art objects (Manovich, 2001).

Location: Radcliff Camera, Oxford

Radcliffe Square is where this becomes impossible to ignore. Standing there, surrounded by the Radcliffe Camera, the Bodleian Library, All Souls College, and the University Church, you’re not looking at isolated monuments — you’re inside a composed architectural “scene.” Even small movements change how the space reads. That’s not passive viewing, that’s interaction. And that lines up with how the new media theory talks about meaning being created through participation, not just observation (Manovich, 2001).

Medium Specificity & Post Medium:

This is also where the whole idea of medium specificity kind of falls apart. Modernist thinkers like Lessing and Greenberg argued that each medium should focus on its own qualities, architecture as space, painting as surface, film as time (Lessing, 1766; Greenberg, 1960). Oxford completely ignores that rule. Architecture here uses time (through walking), sound (bells, echoes), narrative (rituals, daily routines), and even performance (students moving through spaces). It’s messy in a good way. Because of that, Oxford feels closer to what Rosalind Krauss calls a post-medium condition, where media stop being pure and start blending into each other (Krauss, 1999).

Location: Queens Lane, Oxford

Walking through lanes like Brasenose Lane or Catte Street feels almost cinematic. The space compresses, your vision narrows, and then suddenly opens into Radcliffe Square. That’s spatial pacing, the same logic used in film editing, game design, and VR (Manovich, 2001).

Landscape as Part of the Experience:

Location: Christ Church Medows, Oxford

The immersion doesn’t stop at buildings either, Christ Church Meadow pushes this even further by integrating landscape as part of the immersive system. The architecture doesn’t overpower the environment; it frames it. Tom Tower popping up behind trees, the cathedral half-hidden, the river creating space to breathe. It all feels balanced. This connects to what Bollmer and Suddarth describe as genealogical immersion, where modern immersive media borrow ideas from older spatial experiences (Bollmer and Suddarth, 2022).

Location: Christ Church Medows, Oxford

Architecture, VR, and Designed Experience

During the lecture there was a talk about VR as a child of Gesamtkunstwerk, arguing that immersive digital environments are extensions of earlier total artworks rather than an entirely new phenomena (Wagner, 1849; Bollmer and Suddarth, 2022). Oxford backs that up. It shows that immersion isn’t about technology — it’s about how space, movement, sound, and attention are designed to work together. Architecture was doing this long before digital media showed up.

What makes Oxford interesting is that it does not follow strict rules about what architecture should be. It is not just buildings that sit still and look nice. The city mixes sound, movement, history, and everyday life. It feels a bit chaotic, but that is exactly why it works. It feels similar to how we experience media today, where images, sound, interaction, and narratives all blend together (Krauss, 1999; Manovich, 2001). Because of that, Oxford feels more modern than you would expect for such an historic place.

Conclusion

What I find most compelling is that Oxford’s Gesamtkunstwerk isn’t frozen in time. It’s alive. Students rush through medieval corridors stressing about deadlines. Bells ring over. The people moving through the city aren’t just viewers, they’re part of the artwork (Wagner, 1849).

Location: Cowley Road, Oxford

So yeah, Oxford is beautiful. But that’s not the point. Its real significance is how it operates as a total, immersive, post-medium system. What matters is how it works as a living, immersive, post-medium system. It shows that architecture can tell stories, guide interaction, and create immersion without relying on digital tech at all. And honestly, that makes it one of the strongest reference points we have for understanding immersion in both historical and digital media today (Krauss, 1999; Bollmer and Suddarth, 2022).

References

Bollmer, G.D. and Suddarth, E. (2022) Immersion. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Greenberg, C. (1960) ‘Modernist Painting’, Art and Literature, no. 4, pp. 193–201.

Krauss, R. (1999) A Voyage on the North Sea: Art in the Age of the Post-Medium Condition. London: Thames & Hudson.

Lessing, G.E. (1766) Laocoön: An Essay on the Limits of Painting and Poetry. London: J. Dodsley.

Manovich, L. (2001) The Language of New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Stories are present everywhere, in movies, games, drama, reels, memes and even in how we talk about our lives. Films and games both tell stories, but they don’t work the same way. One is something you can watch and the other is something you do. When games get adapted into movies (or the other way around), things either get a bit interesting or it gets messy. In this article I’m going to discuss about the common, contrast and conditions when it comes to Films and games.

To keep it more interesting, We’ll be looking into examples like Assassins Creed, The Angry Birds movies and Arcane from League of Legends.

The Common: Structure

No matter the format, most stories follow a simple structure. A character wants something, something goes wrong, and they change towards the end. That’s basically Narrative function 101. Most of us are familiar with the 3 act structure of a narrative.

Image source: Studio Biner

It goes something like:

Beginning: Setup of the world and the character (Establishment)

Middle: An obstacle, struggle or twist (Conflict)

End: Resolution, closure (Climax/Conclusion)

This idea evolved from classic narrative theories from people like Aristotle, Todorov etc. [Aristotle’s Beginning-middle-end and Todorov’s equilibrium theory] (Aristotle, trans. 1996; Todorov, 1977).

Both films and games still rely on:

• Characters with goals/objectives • Obstacles that create tension • Emotional payoff/ Conclusion.

The difference isn’t in the story but in how it’s experienced.

Format: Watch vs Play

Films are linear, you just press play and the story moves on no matter what. You can’t stop the protagonist from making any decisions [good or bad]. Whereas, games are interactive, the player has complete control on the story. If you don’t move, nothing happens. This changes everything! (Murray, 1997)

To make it more simple here it is in bullet points:

In films: • The director has control of the pacing • Every emotional beat is planned • The audience are passive

In Games: • The player controls movement and timing • Failure, restart and exploration are part of the experience. • The audience become the protagonist.

The story and narrative theory changes. In games the story isn’t just told — it’s performed (Juul, 2005).

The Conflict: Narrative vs Interaction

Image source: Reddit

When playing games of different genre, some games makes us feel like we’ve lived a second life, while others make me feel like we’ve just an observer just hitting buttons to move on. Here’s the main issue games face, What’s that one sweet spot where they both co-exist? This also raises another question to the game designers, How do you tell a story while also giving the player complete freedom? (Ryan, 2001)

Too much story and cutscenes = A movie in the form of a game. When a game leans too hard and rich into the story, it can start to feel like a series of long cutscenes. The player becomes a spectator in their own game, and the act of playing feels like it’s an interruption to the movie feel. Examples for this arguments are games like Until Dawn, Death Stranding etc. (Klevjer, 2012)

Too much freedom = The story gets forgotten, weak or disconnected. This kind of games are a separate category “Sandbox Games”. Some games in this category will have a story/narrative they get forgotten because of the extremely fun gameplay and innovative mechanics. Minecraft, Terraria, GTA V are some examples of this category (Jenkins, 2004).

Films do not face this dilemma. Their power lies in authorial control—every frame and beat is intentional. Games, however, must constantly negotiate between guiding the player and also have freedom. This distinction becomes especially important when adapting games into films or vice versa.

Adaptations: The Bad, The Good, The Absolute

Gaming adaptations are now a thing of pop-culture. It feels like every month, one of our beloved gaming world is being reimagined for the screens. But as a fan and a critic, I’ve noticed that some of them face a “lost in translation” problem that has nothing to do with the script and all about the input (Hutcheon, 2013).

When we play a game, we feel close to the story because we are in control. We’re not just watching the hero escape danger—we’re the ones pressing the button at the right moment. Our heart beats faster because we made the jump and we survived. But when that same story is shown on a screen, the control is gone. The interaction is cut, and with it, the feeling of being the main character—something only playing a game can give (Murray, 1997).

I’ll discuss each part of the spectrum with a case study supporting the discussion.

The Bad:

At one end of this spectrum, you get adaptations that try to replace the controller. They keep the camera close, the action loud, use the same set pieces and keeping fun important moments hoping they will trigger the same rush you felt while playing. While it’s fun and looks good, It often feels like someone else is taking over your playthrough. The moments are there, but you’re not the player anymore.

The Assassin’s Creed game series builds its story around player freedom and identity. You don’t just watch an assassin move through history—you become one. Parkour, stealth, and choice are what create the fantasy of being a hidden blade in a living world (Ubisoft, 2007).

Image source: Ubisoft

The 2016 live-action Assassin’s Creed film makes this experience into a very stiff, traditional movie. It borrows the lore, symbolics, and the settings but it strips away the very thing that made the game work, Agency (Ryan, 2001). The most loved mechanic/aspect of the game was the ability of parkour, freerunning and assassinations, but it feels rushed and disconnecting because the audience isn’t doing it this time.

The adaptation may look granduesque and just like the game, but when it lacks the emotional core and feel of it. This shows how a poor adaptation doesn’t just lose the interactivity it lacks clarity, immersion and most importantly the bond between the player and the character (Hutcheon, 2013).

The Good:

There are some adaptations that accepts the loss of control and start working a way around it. Instead of copying the gameplay, they just work with the spirit of the game that includes aspects like it’s themes, characters, relationships, and choices into a form that works for the screen. These are adaptations that are respectful rather than desperate.

A great example of this can be the Angry Birds Movie Franchise. “The Angry Birds Movie” started as a mechanics mobile game with minimal narrative context. Angry Birds as a game barely had a plot.

Image source: IMDB

But when it became a movie, the creators built a narrative from scratch. Now the birds have personalities, emotional issues, and character arcs. From a narrative theory POV, this is interesting cause the film used a classic character-based narrative, even when the game was purely relied on mechanics (Jenkins, 2004). Actually the movie worked, it didn’t just recreate the feeling of the game but reimagined it in a way that fits the big screen.

The Absolute:

These are the rare wins that stop chasing the game entirely. They use the world and lore as a foundation, not a blueprint and build a standalone narrative. Arcane (Based on League of Legends) is the best example of this category.

Image source: Netflix

League of Legends is not a story-driven game, it’s a competitive game. The story exists outside the gameplay, in lore, character designs, the skin lines and it’s vast world-building (Riot Games, 2009). Arcane takes that background lore and makes it into a full fledged narrative experience.

The series builds its power through carefully written character arcs, especially the fractured relationship between Vi and Jinx, where emotion replaces the player’s choice. The Conflict is not just something simple, it is driven by ideology, loss, and consequence, not victory conditions. By using animation, pacing, and performance to guide emotion, Arcane creates agency of a different kind (Fortiche & Riot Games, 2021).

Conclusion:

• Both the formats don’t tell stories in better or worse ways, They’re just different. • Films control the narrative completely • Games share that control with the player • Adaptations work when they know the difference between the two formats. • It isn’t just about the visuals but it’s about the way it’s experienced.

References:

Aristotle (1996) Poetics. Translated by M. Heath. London: Penguin Classics.

Fortiche Production & Riot Games (2021) Arcane. Netflix. Paris / Los Angeles.

Hutcheon, L. (2013) A Theory of Adaptation. 2nd edn. London: Routledge.

Jenkins, H. (2004) ‘Game Design as Narrative Architecture’, in First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Juul, J. (2005) Half-Real: Video Games between Real Rules and Fictional Worlds. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Murray, J. (1997) Hamlet on the Holodeck: The Future of Narrative in Cyberspace. New York: Free Press.

Riot Games (2009) League of Legends. Los Angeles: Riot Games.

Ryan, M.-L. (2001) Narrative as Virtual Reality. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.

Todorov, T. (1977) The Poetics of Prose. Oxford: Blackwell.