This Rocks, and Why

Well, first we have to figure out why art matters. Why is art, as a whole, something worth studying, analyzing, and understanding?

After years of having only read half of Scott McCloud’s graphic novel Understanding Comics, I recently finished the last chapters of the book. And, funnily enough, the last few pages summed up the answer to this question for me so perfectly that I was inspired to write this.

Scott McCloud says – specifically about comics but first about all art – that media is by definition a means of communicating between people.

First off, I’ll state a basic premise the rest of this piece will assume. Empathy, understanding and relating to another person’s experience, is good. It is a moral truth and a principle worth upholding. Also, empathy is not inherent to the human experience. A person can only truly know themself. So to empathize with someone else takes conscious effort.

To do so, people need some means of transmitting ideas to each other. These means we call mediums (or media, if we decline the Latin noun). As McCloud explains, a medium acts as the middle ground between two people, an author and an audience, in sending a message.

This idea is also explained elegantly in this video essay by Innuendo Studios that I recommended last week. If you haven’t seen it, watch it. It’s really good.

There are many modes of communication, spoken language being the most common. But artistic media have become just as meaningful as language, and they use unique tools that we don’t completely understand. Therefore, McCloud argues, there is a merit to understanding art. By studying how art works, artists can more effectively communicate their ideas, and audiences can more effectively interpret the messages in works. We can express more complex ideas by harnessing the full potential of a medium. And we can demand a higher standard from our art since we understand that it directly relates to our capability to improve ourselves as empathic creatures.

Logically, this produces the purpose of the media critic, and I think it explains what appeals to me in this vocation. A critic studies the tools and application of media and how creators can most effectively communicate ideas. They determine when a product successfully conveys an idea and how an author has created their product to do so. Critics also hold the unique responsibility of arguing whether a product’s message is worth sharing, because, as in spoken language, some ideas are more worth saying than others.

Now I’m getting into some ethics talk here. Not everyone agrees that there are such things as absolute rights and wrongs. But if we play along with one assumption, that mutual empathy is a goal worth striving for, we can infer that some messages aim to further that goal while others can purposefully or unintentionally cause divides in people. A film like W.D. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation fully utilized its visual language to communicate its argument, but a modern audience will agree that its racist agenda is not worth pushing. Likewise, art has the potential to present any idea it likes, but some ideas shouldn’t be propagated in the first place.

That is not to say that all art is consciously political. Some art even intends to omit any sense of importance or political standing from their work – who would ever say that an Adam Sandler comedy is intentionally meaningful? But even by omitting controversial or challenging themes, that piece of art now promotes a different value system, perhaps one of whimsy or ambivalence or ignorance. The act of creating art cannot be divorced from delivering a message to an audience.

Art can convey these messages in very straightforward, easily understood terms, or it can mask them in innuendo and codified script. It is the critic’s role to, first, recognize and fully understand these modes of communication and, then, to lead the discussion around media by sharing their interpretation and using their moral alignment to judge that art’s quality.

At least, this should be the critic’s job, right? Then why does this so often not occur?

Art and art criticism are both more often concerned with financial success, mass appeal, or simple escapism rather than some complicated concept of ethical communication. Artists tend to stick to comfortable stories and easily understood methods rather than pushing the boundaries of their medium in an attempt to be marketable and get in front of the greatest number of eyes. And because critics exist in the same ecosystem of the art industry, they too must fold to the demands of a paycheck and laud Hollywood cashgrabs over content that actually aims for quality.

Are blockbuster films, arguably the most widely consumed art, “improving human empathy?” Is art that is not inspired by idealism not worth producing?  Must all art be held to this standard? Does the average person have to weigh the moral value of a story to be able to enjoy it? Can’t a person just read a book because it passes the time?

Plus, why do I need to be a critic? What does my perspective have anything to do with promoting empathy? Is this more about selfish fulfillment, believing my thoughts hold importance beyond simple opinion? Or am I just lusting for the glamour of show biz?

So, is this theory even true? There are other theories that argue why art is important, and not all attempt to hold the difficult high ground of moral righteousness like I am here. How else can art be valuable? When it comes to art theory, I’m familiar with two primary arguments that disregard the conversation between artist and individual (at least, to my understanding). Aestheticism values the intensely individual experience art can provide for a consumer. Good art, then, is something that strongly elicits a feeling in its consumer but does not consider an intended message from a creator. And formalism tends to ignore the audience, focusing instead on the artist and their pursuit of creating art purely for the sake of art. 

Then art means something different to the public. When you ask the average person, art is just meant to be fun. It’s a distraction, purposefully meaningless so that it contrasts with the reality’s struggles. In healthy moderation, who can argue that this escapism is wrong? Isn’t this pleasure valuable enough?

I just know that I believe in my argument the most. Some of the thinkers I respect most have taught me these ideas before, in different terms and usually not as haughtily as I have attempted here. John Green has said (several times) that “writing is always an attempt at radical empathy.” To enter the mind of another person, fictional or not, is both exciting to experience and integral in developing skills to relate to another person’s experience.

So, rather than push this argument as universal, I’ll simply say it works for me. I like stories for a lot of reasons. They are a nice distraction, especially when I’m feeling anxious about what job I should pursue or where my life should be heading. They let me enter other lives and worlds and experience the imagination of incredibly talented people. And they let me use my imagination and engage with ideas and values broader than my life’s experiences. In this way, art criticism is itself a form of expression that can start conversations and get people to relate with each other.

But, more selfishly, I want to write about things I like because it actually makes me like art more. When I can express why I like something, I can decide more clearly why I like some things more than others. And I get to revisit cool moments I’ve had with movies or games or whatever and experience the feelings that were inspired in that moment. Finally, having a value system behind what art is good like I’ve attempted here also helps me figure out what I like.

To illustrate the concept of authorial intention, Danskin asks if The Sopranos’s creator David Chase should retroactively be able to determine that Tony dies at the end of the show. Danskin’s answer to his thought experiment: “Fuck this guy!” If Chase wanted to explicitly convey this in the first place, he should have put something in the show to indicate it rather than the vague ending he did write. Full disclosure, I haven’t seen the ending of The Sopranos, but we don’t need to have seen it to get the concept. Stories are meant to be interpreted by their audiences, and authorial intention doesn’t have to be considered. People can come to conclusions just from the evidence in the text. However, historical and cultural context along with author biography are incredibly useful tools for analysis, so a text’s readings don’t always have to be isolated to the text either. This is a more complicated question of art theory that I’m not going to try to argue. I’m simply presenting the reader’s (assumedly your) perspective on this question of whether I can change my article. According to this train of thought, I could say what I now believe and would like to change, but you don’t have to consider it relevant and should judge my previous work as it was originally presented. Fuck me, right?

Now, if I were to use The Beginner’s Guide as my guide on this issue, I think the game would support an antithetical position. For interpreting and even changing his games, Coda says to Davey the narrator “Fuck this guy!” (my paraphrasing). The Beginner’s Guide questions the role of the audience in interpreting art and the artist’s responsibility to its audience. Art is usually thought of as something that is seen, something that gains value once an artist lets an audience see it. However, I suggest that art that is unseen by the public can still be valuable, specifically for the artist. Put simply, art is expression, and personal expression can be valuable without anyone to hear what was said. Coda makes games just to make them. But do I write essays just to write them? In some sense, I write these for others to read them, to express my thoughts to others and test their credibility and clarity. However, these essays are most valuable to me; I get to conjure up concepts and realize them on the page through language. I get to look back on these records of my thoughts and see how I have changed since I wrote them. These words are much more valuable to me, since I know exactly what they mean while readers will only ever get close to understanding – that’s not a knock on you, that’s simply the nature of language (Danskin simply and elegantly explains this concept as well in his essay). The Beginner’s Guide offers a similar view, that art can be valuable without ever considering its accessibility or an audience’s enjoyment of it. Here lies another complicated issue of art theory which I will not firmly debate, merely present a school of thought on the matter. With this concept in mind, though, I do have every right to improve my work so that I may more thoroughly enjoy it, and I shouldn’t have to consider you readers when I change it. Fuck you, right?

Hey by the way, I just wrote all of that, and now I’m realizing I don’t actually want to change anything. I brought up the whole “I don’t know Davey Wreden” thing in the article too (and in the title; I feel dumb).

Hi, Will here. That last bit may have come out of nowhere. Let me explain. I wrote all that at around midnight on October 2, 2016, and I’m currently reading it all again on May 30, 2019. This is gonna get meta. I’m now responding to an article I wrote about responding to an article I wrote about responding to a game (about a guy responding to a game designer). This act of responding is what I wanna talk about.

This article means something completely different to me now than it did when I started writing it. I’ve been thinking about how people reinterpret art as we gain new life experience, and how we engage in conversation not only when we create art but when we analyze it. I’m thinking about this more especially as I’m getting older, like when movies from my childhood feel very different because I’m reading into aspects I had never seen before.

Danskin’s video essay has, funnily enough, guided my thinking on this topic. His video has taught me about the audience’s role in giving art meaning and how subjective that meaning really is. Since I wrote the first half of this, I’ve rewatched that essay every few months, because it explains ideas that are fundamental to my current understanding of art. Please watch it. Really, I don’t care if you read the rest of this, it’s more important that you watch this video. Watch it. Now.

So what is my article about? What does it mean to me now? It’s about the endless conversation good art can start between artwork and audience. If a work is complicated enough and speaks to a person’s experiences on a deep, profound level, that work can be interpreted an infinite amount of different ways. And each way can be just as important and meaningful to a person. On top of that, the responses to that art can be equally valuable. Maybe this response to myself is a bit self-indulgent, but I do think it illustrates my point. I look at The Beginner’s Guide differently now because of how I’ve reconsidered it.

This piece is also about a writer who constantly rethinks his work. He’s trying to improve his thoughts and compare them to essays and thinkers that he admires. This becomes a cycle of read, analyze, respond, repeat. I’m constantly re-reading what I’ve written and checking whether I still agree with myself. In this way I aim to improve my skills in presenting a position and convincing someone of its substance.

This process exemplifies the dialectic mode: thesis (presenting a thought) -> antithesis (questioning a thought) -> synthesis (a greater understanding of the thought and the next starting point, literally the “new thesis”). This process supposedly progresses humanity’s collective intellect, as if all thought moves us towards an end goal of “the truth.” I don’t agree with this idealistic notion of truth, because to believe that is to dismiss the subjective nature of individual interpretation like I was saying before. But I do think that my understanding has evolved since I wrote the first half of this, and it’s fun to enter my previous mind and see how I’ve grown since then.

Now, I do want to answer the question I asked at the beginning of this all: Should I or should I not edit my original post?

Right now, I say no.

All art is influenced by its moment in time as well as an author’s beliefs and experiences. That author can be one person or a collaboration of personalities, all contributing to a combined philosophy which comes across as one message to the audience. John Green once said in an interview that “Writing is always an attempt at radical empathy.” I’m gonna reference this in another article (coming soon), because this thought has defined the value I find in art. Even if just for me, this article can take me back to the moment I wrote it. And that is valuable.

So Will, next time you read this finished post, think about me, sitting in the corner of my mom’s living room, at the table you made into a gaming corner, having a kinda depressed day because I couldn’t get myself to do anything, until I starting looking through my folder of old “This Rocks” docs, and I was hit with a wave of inspiration to write this. Remember this feeling. Remember, things aren’t always as bad in your head as they are when you’re sad. Things get better. Just give it some time, and when you feel you can do something else, do it. It’s better to move on than wallow in the muck of a slow, disappointing day.

And to you, the reader that is not me, thanks for indulging me. I know this piece is really only for me. But if you learned something from this, or maybe had an issue with how I explained something, or thought about your own work or experience, or maybe you even enjoyed being in my head for a few moments as you read this, then you’ve engaged with these words, I’ve done my job, and art prevails once more.

Art is dead, long live art!

In The Beginner’s Guide, Wreden narrates a number of short games all made by “Coda,” whom he introduces at the start as a fellow game designer he met at a game jam. Each game is experimental and concept-driven, like a game where you can only walk backwards and a series of games about prisons. Wreden’s narration highlights how Coda’s games mature in complexity as he continues to develop them and how they explore the same themes like social anxiety, the creative process, and depression. He also discusses his relationship with Coda over the years these games came out. 

I recently had my friend Ellie play this game to show her how cool it is. I thought she would play the first three or four segments to get the gist of its tone and narrative style, but soon she was engrossed in Coda’s games and wanted to learn all she could about him. I was really glad she liked it. And watching her playthrough gave me a chance to look at the game as whole and figure out what I think the game is about. I’m particularly glad that I watched a friend play it live rather than watch a YouTube let’s play or play it again myself, because I think showing this to someone inspired feelings in me that Wreden touches upon in the game.

In the penultimate level, “The Tower,” Wreden shares with us how he felt when he showed people Coda’s games: “When I showed people your work, it felt like I was responsible for something important and valuable....  For a moment, while I had that [feeling], I liked myself.” Wreden describes the same feeling most of us have when we experience great art. When a piece makes sense, has a clear message, and we understand it, we feel complete, like we’ve solved life’s puzzle.

Film theorist Jean-Louis Baudry has described this sensation in his writing on the Apparatus Theory. In short, film’s viewers feel like they are controlling the image they are seeing through the power of their gaze, all because of how viewers experience film. Viewers immobilize themselves in a dark room so the image can more effectively immerse them. They sit in front of the projector, so they do not see the source of the image and therefore can believe their eyes are producing the image. Viewers identify themselves with protagonists, through which they can personally experience the narrative world. And the film structures its narrative with clear beginning, middle, and end to provide expected excitement and resolution, providing another sense of control. When films do these things well, Baudry tells us that viewers suspend their disbelief and ignore reality in preference for this feeling of control and wholeness.

Art is powerful, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. People will usually compare art to science or engineering and tell you art has no practical purpose. That’s malarkey, because art affects the two most important (and practical) human organs - the mind and the heart. Art makes you feel all sorts of things. It acts as a tool for empathy, allowing people to feel other people’s feelings through art. And really good art can even make you feel complete, worth something. Art is one whole product, and when you get it and it vibes with you, everything seems right with the world. All your confusion and pain and insecurity doesn't matter because you're engrossed in this art. If we could, we would capture the emotions we feel from art and keep them with us forever. But the lights come up, we walk out the theater, and the earth still exists, as much as we wish it didn't. Our imperfect lives go on, even though we wish we could stay in the dream world just a moment longer.

This, I think, describes Wreden’s feelings when he played these games. He felt he understood them, and because they made sense to him the world seemed to make sense too. So in showing other people Coda’s games, he wanted to ignore the world, feel these feelings again, and in a sense control his emotions by re-experiencing these games through other people. But this need for control drove Coda away. Wreden twisted the games’ meanings to something he could understand and by doing so inserted himself into the game.

By the end of The Beginner’s Guide, the player can assume that Coda is not a real person. Wreden made these games and created Coda as a narrative device to present these games to you. So why did he make these games? Why did Davey invent Coda?

I think that “Davey Wreden,” the narrator, represents Davey’s ego, the voice in his head that determines his worth and compares him to “Coda,” the idealized artist persona that makes Wreden’s games. Davey sees his creative aspects as separate from himself, like they’re a talented genius that makes perfect games but whom Davey can’t access all the time. People like Coda’s games, but Davey tells himself that people don’t like him, since he makes mistakes and is awkward and flawed. Coda can be compared to “the Machine,” the Muse behind all the games, which Wreden has the player interrogate and then destroy. Therefore, Davey seeks validation through his creative work, while Coda makes games just to make them. Coda doesn’t want other people playing his games, because that means they would be vulnerable to their interpretations. But that seems hypocritical, since art is meant to be viewed. Indeed, these games would mean nothing unless Davey hadn’t shown them to people, right?

In this way, The Beginner’s Guide represents the conflict between the artist’s and the ego’s drive to make art. The artist seeks self-expression, the ego seeks self-validation. The ego just wants to experience something that feels complete and rational and good, unlike the real world. The ego, then, can be compared to art’s consumers. They (and their egos) identify with art and postulate on its meaning - one that makes sense to them, one that they want to hear. And they want to control that feeling, perhaps by sharing it with other people. 

That’s why I was excited to show Ellie this game, and why I’m writing about it now. Like Davey felt when he showed The Beginner’s Guide to people, I feel like I can take responsibility for sharing this game with the world. I got to relive the first time I played it through someone else. And I get to formalize my ideas about who Coda is.

However, the meaning that consumers get from art might not have been intended by the artist. Who am I to say that Coda doesn’t exist? I’m also postulating a huge amount on Davey’s personality and thoughts when I describe his relationship with Coda. I’m characterizing him as self-loathing and depressed, just like he does with Coda. I don’t actually know Davey Wreden -- I may write about him like I do and even feel like I do after hearing his voice for a few hours throughout the game. But I don’t. He and his thoughts are completely inaccessible to me. Wreden says something similar in “The Tower” about Coda. And Coda even accuses Davey of falsely representing him in the game. Near the end of “The Tower,” Coda write to him, “The fact that you think I’m broken say more about you than about me.” Davey identified so strongly with Coda that he applied his own thoughts to Coda. And I identify so strongly with Davey that I act like I understand what he’s talking about here. We read ourselves into our media. We feel what we want, we think what we want.

So, is art actually as powerful as I thought? When we experience art, do we actually engage with other people’s thoughts, or are we trapped in our own minds? Like sitting in a hot tub, set to the perfect temperature to make us feel good. We just think and feel what we want to. And when we don’t, it’s “bad art.” 

Why do I write? Am I just trying to preserve the euphoria of my media experiences, bottling a shadow in hopes of proving I can be happy? Am I selfishly claiming the accomplishments of other artists to shut up the voice that tells me I can't do what they can? Or do I just want, more than anything, to feel nothing else but those feelings I felt when I experienced my favorite art?

I'm reading a book called Art and Fear (recommended to me by Tony Shalhoub in that panel I talked about in that article about choice), and reading it is helping me clear away misconceptions about making stuff. Bayles and Orland reinforce throughout their book that a lot of art is bad, but making that art helps artists make better art. For a while I've waited for the right moment to write good stuff - the moment when I know enough and can express myself well enough to write something worth reading. But I am starting to understand that I'll never reach that point unless I start writing some really bad stuff that isn't worth reading first.

So let this post be a relinquishing of my fears (at the moment, I'm sure I'll have more to deal with later). Let this blog be a record of my growth. And let this summer be the period in my life I can point to and say, "That is when I decided to be a writer."

That said, I might not like writing. I don't want this part to sound like I'm giving myself an easy out so I can quit later. Or maybe that is what I want. But I'm gonna challenge that fear and at least try writing until I find something I want to do more. Because I want to write. I may not like to admit it because of how uncertain I am that I can succeed at it. But I'm sure that I want to write.

Now, I must acknowledge that this sort of self-encouragement piece can also be self-defeating. Reflexive writing about my anxieties, this acknowledgment of the self as artist, might demonstrate what Bayles and Orland call an "attempt... to turn this obstacle [of self doubt] to [my] advantage" (25). In short, I'm writing about my fear in a cathartic way, but that means I keep focusing on it and never let go of it. I've written about myself in all my other posts here (first the description, then the Game Story, then in “An Exploration of Choice”). Writing about one’s experience is valuable, but only when it adds to a greater point, not when I’m indulging my ego.

I also tend to acknowledge you, the reader, within my writings through sarcastic comments about the piece. For example, I’ll scold myself for talking so much about Davey Wreden whom I adore with all my heart. I imagine that you recognize these sorts of odd tendencies and hate them, as if you’re tearing apart every word I write. Bayles and Orland would say I’m actually hearing my own doubt in my writing choices. By addressing you, I attempt to remove your criticism by saying, “I know it’s bad, stay with me.” I should take my own advice from my other post and commit to my choices, not demean them before I even write them.

I’m in two classes this semester (both held on Tuesdays) that explored “choice” in their first lectures. First, I’m in a class called Film and Buddhism in which we learn about Buddhism as a philosophy and examine how it and its iconography are transmitted and often appropriated in film (side-note: I just found out that Davey Wreden took this class and made this video as his final project). On the first day, we briefly outlined Buddhism’s key concepts including the Four Noble Truths, which we paraphrased as follows:

Everything has the potential for suffering (this is often mistranslated as “life is suffering,” but our professor believes this misrepresents the beauty that Buddhists see in life).

The root of suffering is desire.

We can end suffering by letting go of desire.

Anyone can become enlightened.

This message is much more profound than it may seem, especially as it relates to choice. Essentially, the Buddha tells us that we can choose to be happy. All of us have the agency to dispel suffering and make ourselves happy. Not only that, we all can achieve the most peaceful state of mind, nirvana. Happiness is not for the richest or holiest or luckiest people. Let me repeat: we can choose to be happy.

As I mentioned, I’m a very self-reflexive person. I analyze and often criticize my actions. Sometimes I’m able to live up to my expectations, but I usually disappoint myself. As a result, I fall into lethargy, and I avoid doing things that I might fail at. At these times I think that I have to feel this way, that there’s no way to fix it except to wait the feeling out.

The Buddha denies this. He says we can fix our sorrow and choose happiness. That’s not to say happiness is easy to achieve. The Buddha abandoned his lavish life along with his wife and child and tortured his body in order to find the Middle Path. You must sacrifice something to change. And you must start with the choice to change. But I find myself stuck in a perfectionist mindset – all my choices must be correct, I have no room for error. This restricts me from, well, making any choices, sometimes. I want to change, but I don’t know the best way to do so. Then I considered “playful choices.”

I’m also in an Intro to Games class (the same class for which I wrote my last piece, link here) in which we explore the terminology in game studies so we can more effectively understand, discuss, analyze, and design games. For example, our professor asked us what a “game” is. One student must have known that I needed to hear more about choice, so he defined games as an environment in which players get to make choices.

Players do things in games, and they have to decide what to do. These decisions affect their progress in the game. Sometimes there’s a right and wrong choice (you can either jump onto or over the spikey pit of death). Sometimes there’s not; some games force a player to make their own choices – consider sandbox games like The Sims, Minecraft, or GTA V. But players derive fun from their play choices. Some choices aren’t even intended by the game’s designers. Players can find a unique strategy or an entirely new goal to achieve within a game’s system. These behaviors are called “emergent gameplay.” Think of the tactics speedrunners use – not intended but very useful. Players also have to choose to play. That is, they must adhere to the system’s rules and suspend their disbelief in order to submit to its reality – this is called assuming the “lusory attitude.” Some games even explore the choice of turning off a game as a diegetic necessity, like in Save the Date or The Stanley Parable (okay, I’ll stop talking about Wreden). In this way, games can be considered the medium of choice.

Life, in this way, is one big series of games. I know, pretentious, but hear me out. Some games provide clear-cut goals like, in university, getting a diploma. Others are like sandbox games where the player has to decide everything to do, like in post-graduation. But even then, there is a system of rules and behaviors that govern the player’s actions. I’ve been considering my life like a puzzle game – that there’s always a solution to a level, and I can find it if I do the right things. Therefore, in my game, success derives from doing the correct things and progressing in the most efficient way. I think this way of thinking undervalues life’s game.

Life is more like an open-world adventure. Yes, there’s the main quest that I can follow – get a degree, a job, a house, a wife, a kid – but I can take my time to progress in this. Ultimately the side quests I choose to follow and the way I decide to upgrade my character will determine how much fun I have playing it. I mean, come on – who’s ever just done the story missions in Skyrim? That’s not the point! You can treat life like a linear, one-answer game. But there’s a whole world outside of that questline to explore. So, where do you start? How do you choose your trajectory?

Now, back to the Monday. At my university, the theater and film schools have limited resources to facilitate their collaboration. To fix this, the schools arranged for their students a mixer, to which they invited Tony Shalhoub to appear at a preceding panel. Like the majority of attendees, I came to the event to hear Monk talk (a minor point: the mixer didn’t help fix the problem).

Much like his character in Monk, Tony Shalhoub exudes intelligence and charm with a hint of reservation and unease. He considered his answers thoroughly, sometimes stumbling as he made sure each word was astute and each answer entertaining. The panel’s sharp-witted host Barnet Kellman, a film professor and a good friend of his, brought out Tony’s talent and humility with his quirky, prodding, but still insightful questions. Shalhoub mainly talked about his education at Yale and his exposure to theater, television, and film acting. He also answered questions from the audience about good and bad directors, his experience as a producer, and finding a balance between business and passion: the standard fare from a successful celebrity, nothing I hadn’t heard before.

But my ears perked at his answer to an acting student’s question about the level of spontaneity one can bring to a character. He said that when he has to decide something like a character’s move or line inflection, he commits to a choice, then he throws it away. He finds that trying to find the best character choice ultimately keeps him from choosing anything and restricts his ability to perform. He just makes a choice, does it, then moves on.

This one’s pretty simple, but it completes the lesson about choice. To review:

Everyone can choose to be happy. 

Choices determine what you do and how much fun you have doing it, like in games. 

Choices aren’t permanent; make a choice, then throw it away.

Have you ever had one of those weeks where you have nothing to complain about but you end up wallowing in that nothing, purposefully sleeping through classes, avoiding that reading response by writing a blog entry instead, then beating yourself up over it all? Well, I just had one of those. And guess what? I chose to do all of that. I chose to be sad, and I chose to do nothing about it. I know that sometime our brain chemistry can keep us from doing what we want, but the important first step is choosing how you want to feel and resolving to attain that. Maybe my problem is I don't know what I want. In other words, I don't know what the right choice is that will make me happy. Here's where Shalhoub’s insight shines through. There is no right choice. Just make one! If it works, great! If it doesn't, throw it away.

Shalhoub also mentioned a book called Art and Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland which he says taught him how to allow creative choices to flow freely without fear of failure. I want to read that book, because I think it'll help me get over this whole “right choice” idea of mine. I've just gotta choose which day to buy it.

I now choose to end this article with (besides hitting you over the head with “choice”) a video essay from Every Frame a Painting about visual representation of choice. If you haven't checked out this channel, I highly encourage it. I aspire to make content as intelligent, cogent, and eye-opening as Tony Zhou’s. That's why I'm trying my hand at this blog thing. But while I'm starting out, watch the master at work.

My school offered plenty of arts classes that allowed me to stretch my creative muscles. I branched into other mediums, specifically literature, music, and theater. I started singing in choirs in 5th grade. I engaged in my literature classes. I acted in plays and musicals throughout high school. And I found I was relatively talented at these subjects. Because the school was small and my progress in classes was rewarded through grades, I felt successful. My endeavors not only tested my creative value but also comforted my ego through their inherent validation. I felt that, by integrating artistic practices into my identity, I had conquered art. Thus I fully owned the “artsy” persona which I had constructed. I saw art as the thing I was good at in school. And because of it, I removed the cinematic mediums from my definition of art. Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoyed movies, animation, and games. But I think because I didn’t practice them in school, I placed them in a separate category, thinking of them as just entertainment. With this context, we can progress to the two life-changing art pieces.

First off, I learned about film analysis through dissecting the first five minutes of Silence of the Lambs (1991). My screenwriting teacher showed me how every detail in the film was deliberately chosen to convey meaning about the film’s overall narrative and themes. Subtle dialogue hints, minor body language cues, a decal on a sweater, visual metaphors, and the music choices opened up unimaginable depths to the artistry of movies that I had never noticed. There was so much more to learn, so much more to appreciate and love. This experience solidified my determination to study film in college and was the reason I’m at USC.

By examining Silence of the Lambs, I realized how restricted my view of art had been. I found out how volatile my personal understanding of art is, because a single realization about its complexities can shatter my assumptions about it. Through these events, I have discovered my fascination with digging deeper in media analysis and strengthening my relationship with art.

It’s worth mentioning now that I had vaguely appreciated movies for their literary qualities for a while. I just hadn’t recognized film’s other formal elements and their immense impact on a film’s meaning. But with video games, I never understood how deeply complicated and designed they are until this moment. That’s not to say I didn’t love video games, because boy, did I love them! I bonded with my first friend over our mutual love for the Pokémon series. I fondly remember watching my cousin Miles play Super Mario 64 (1996), in which he collected all 120 stars. I obsessed over the Kingdom Hearts series in middle school and memorized all the songs by Utada Hikaru from them. And I religiously played Halo: Combat Evolved (2001) on a LAN server with my friends during lunch every day in high school. But games were just games, things to be played with. This perspective was turned upside down because of the second cinematic masterpiece.

So finally, the moment you’ve all been waiting for; the second, more relevant, turning point involves the game Mega Man X (1993) and a YouTube video about it which taught me that video games were art. However, I have a quick confession; I still haven’t played Mega Man X. But this video opened my eyes to the craftsmanship and intricacies of video games and made me appreciate them 1000 times more.

In his video “Sequelitis - Mega Man Classic vs. Mega Man X,” Arin Hanson (aka Egoraptor) explores how the video game medium can successfully convey information about a game’s rules, narrative, and themes through gameplay alone. Like the Silence of the Lambs example, Hanson takes the first sequence of this seemingly basic platformer and breaks it down bit by bit to demonstrate the medium’s means of conveyance. He plays the level as if he were “a fucking idiot like modern game devs assume [he is]” (Hanson). That is to say, he doesn’t rely on common assumptions of video games to guide his gameplay. He investigates how the specific choices of the game’s level design guide him without directly telling him how to play it. Here are some examples he demonstrates about how the game teaches mechanics like basic movement, combat, and wall-jumping:

The left wall at the stage’s beginning shows that X must move to the right.

The first enemy type demonstrates that X has to jump over obstacles.

The next enemy type is too high to jump over, so X has to shoot it (which is hinted at in the game’s start menu).

The pit X gets trapped in is designed to draw attention to its sides which entices the player to slide down its walls; players then learn how to wall jump to progress in the stage.

From just these points, I learned how intricately designed levels have to be to convey this much information on how to play and how every detail, down to a simple start menu, matters in a game. Hanson’s major point of analysis addresses the scripted boss fight with Vile at the end of the first stage. He starts by pointing out the player’s feelings of helplessness in the fight. Since the previous mini-boss makes the player question whether bosses have health-bars, she doesn’t know whether she’s hurting Vile or not. And when she loses, the player directly feels X’s pain in defeat. Then, when Zero beats Vile with a single blast, both X and the player are in awe of his epicness. Then Zero says that X will one day be as strong as he is. This encounter sets up what Hanson sees as the game’s primary theme, growing stronger. Defeating Vile and aspiring to Zero’s power become both X’s and the player’s goal. All the power-ups serve as motifs for this theme. And by playing the game and defeating the bosses, the game allows the player to directly feel X’s accomplishments. This is accomplished not through cut-scene but through actual gameplay. The game’s elements inspire profound meaning through the medium’s specific elements. Excuse my French, but this idea is fucking mind-blowing to me!! How insane is it that games allow people to do and feel a story through gameplay?!? Hanson’s analysis of Mega Man X taught me how to understand games critically. It taught me how to appreciate a player’s experience and how a designer facilitates that experience. I learned to look closely at video games and see the intricacies of their conveying properties.

Because this video introduced me to game analysis, I quickly sought a group of people at USC who were interested in similar pursuits. I found MEGA, where I met some of its wonderful members who have expanded my perspective on games. For example, Kevin led a video game book club session in which we played and discussed The Stanley Parable (2011). This game too has broadened my understanding of game design, specifically the literary qualities inherent in level design and the self-reflexive potential for the medium. The same people from MEGA encouraged me to attend IndieCade, at which I discovered radically diverse play experiences and talked with fascinating pioneers in game design, including The Stanley Parable’s Davey Wreden (!!!). Finally, I’m in this class with the hope that I’ll add a Game Design minor to my degree, all because of Hanson’s analysis of Mega Man X.

Even though I’ve never played the game, I think it’s fair to say that Mega Man X has propelled my life into wonderful directions I could never have anticipated. And I must say that this game has further enriched my ever-developing relationship with art and artistic analysis. I am constantly learning that I will never know enough about art, its mediums, and their specific qualities that make them fascinating. This uncertainty drives me forward to keep exploring art.