Games With Grey

Self-expression is an integral component of many video game experiences, for self-expression fosters immersion and intensifies the player / player character relationship; all parties involved benefit, absolutely. Robust morality systems, when properly and respectfully implemented, expand opportunities for such self-expression. On one level, any given player is forced to grapple with, say, equipable armor and equipable weaponry. Oftentimes complex and engaging acts, these decision-making processes are foundational, essential to an effective and enjoyable experience. Even with this foundationalism, larger, loftier concerns inevitably insert themselves into more ambitious narratives. This ambition is intimately intertwined with morality. For games that grapple with morality and moral themes challenge the player in a manner games indifferent to blackness, whiteness, and greyness cannot. Pouring over those selfsame weapon statistics and armor statistics; acting carefully and vigorously to craft the perfect character build; acting dexterously, actually implementing the strategies crafted around that build. These sequences matter, for they challenge the body and the mind. Games which evince a sharp fixation with morality, meanwhile, stimulate the player’s body and mind, to be sure; genre allegiances exist. But simultaneously and crucially, such moral-focused games stimulate the player’s heart, too; moralistic systems frequently evoke pathos, an evocation lacking in so many conventional gameplay experiences rejecting feeling and emotion; industry rifts exist. If this train of thought is continued, then, it follows the greatest, most resonant games are decidedly amalgamationist in structure, seizing upon mind, body, and heart all in the same gesture. Grasping at these three crucial objects and attainments, this trio of stimulation, potentially leads towards over-ambitiousness, a failing absent when, say, the body alone is stimulated. A rift inevitably occurs, then, and morality’s rejection might be seen as a sign of developer trepidation, uncertainty. Still, not all games need such systems, and a diverse ecosystem is typically a healthy ecosystem.  

Many developers do inevitably have a better grasp on morality than do other developers, an easily explainable statement. Each individual studio develops their own climate and stylistic flourishes; consistency abounds, perpetually expands. Reflecting this, a studio which fixates on morality passionately and always is capable of delivering on its ambitions, owing to developer confidence and familiarity, objects less capable – or still fledgling – developers lack outright. Still, whether talented or untalented, many studios cling to binary black and white, good and evil; the poles and only the poles are evoked – laziness exists by implication. Insight into the human condition between the poles is valuable indeed, partially owing to that insight’s relative elusiveness, its defiance of easy comprehensibility and attainability. But such insight must be obtained – the bold developer bucks trends; morality develops and expands; the playerbase benefits. That selfsame playerbase is to be regarded thoughtfully and respectfully by developers and development studios. Some players may regard evilness and bleakness with greater tolerance than others. For the less tolerant, darkness instantly and always equates to a damning alienation; the player / player character relationship suffers, especially if the player is forced in one single, dark direction – see for instance the viler, more destructive paths, frequently emphasized in even the most poignant narratives. Still others, diametric opposites, might derive ample delight from such bleakness and the temporary removal from reality, a removal which enables expressions of darkness; player frustrations in the real world are given a valuable outlet in the virtual world. Valuable outlets indeed: for so many players, escapism is essential, regardless of genre, developer ambitions, or the developer’s capabilities to execute those ambitions – this brief reprieve is rightly valorized, is itself essential to the industry, serving distinguishing functions.

The immensely ambitious Bioshock and Bioshock 2 have unique implementations of morality – see most specifically the Little Sisters, roamers of the underseas Rapture, roamers protected by the hulking and imposing Big Daddies, frightful and devastating creatures all. The tragic girls, subjected to experimentation and corrupted by the cherished substance Adam, are pitiable creatures. Their youthfulness persists, and its preservation necessarily enhances the sorrow and empathy which might be directed towards them; collectively, the girls excite player sympathy – the developers engage the player’s heart and emotions; seeing the Little Sister’s suffering makes the individual player suffer. Here, too, the player is invested with considerable powers, actually able to determine the Little Sister’s final fate. Binaries exist even here, as one clearly villainous path is pursuable, as is another, decidedly altruistic path; blackness and whiteness coexist. The former, darker path sees the Little Sister’s harvesting; taking the girl to a predetermined location, the player can end forever the doomed character’s existence, presumably a painful termination; in the act of dying, the poor creatures lose all vestiges of their humanity, are instead reduced towards a slimy, sluglike state. This bleakness is naturally overwhelming and frequently exhausting – and demoralizing. But reflecting the development studios’ respect for the player base, reflecting their recognition of self-expression’s importance, that brighter path is indeed included and emphasized. If this path is pursued, the player takes that selfsame Little Sister, stranded after her Big Daddy’s death (a death the player orchestrates and executes), to precisely the same map location. There arrived, the girl is liberated; rather than being reduced to that sluglike lifeform, the restored Little Sister reassumes her youthful, girlish frame. The two binaries could not be further apart, and in most titles bleakness such as this would be embraced solely for role-playing purposes, as the player deliberately crafts an apathetic player character or a benevolent one. In Bioshock and Bioshock 2, though, grey ambiguity isprominent; player choice here is bolstered. The internal division is connected to the variable reward systems: if the player harvests the Little Sisters, the rewarded Adam is overflowing. If the player instead occupies a salvationist stance, Adam is still rewarded though in drastically reduced quantities. Masterfully, in this regard the harvesting action is tempting indeed; if the player can stomach the darkness accompanying the harvesting act, then they derive incalculable gameplay benefit. Blackness and whiteness both exist in these two titles, though they are steeped in interpretability.

The entire Fallout series is steeped in moral complexity and moral greyness, essentially the titles’ trademark. In Fallout 3, however, Bethesda implemented an infamous, decidedly black / white sequence – see the town of Megaton, actually (and foolishly) crafted around an undetonated atomic bomb left behind from the earlier wars which wrought such landscape devastation. The NPCs inhabiting Megaton are frequently amiable and consequently endearing – terrible, unquestioned villains are essentially absent here, and while the sheriff regards the player skeptically initially, that skepticism erodes as the player grows ever immersed in this microcosm. All characters, then, are defined by this – likability, relatability; the observant, empathetic player cares for them all in turn. And yet, these one or two dozen NPCs, totally innocent and struggling, can be completely eviscerated, and in spectacular fashion. The greedy and destructive Tenpenny would squeal with delight at that evisceration. Using a liaison carefully and covertly positioned in the settlement, Tenpenny and the player eventually meet, and the player is promptly provided an ultimatum – rearm and detonate the nuke in Megaton’s center, or leave the bomb untampered with. This black / white drasticness borders on outright absurdity, is frustrating in its simplicity, its rejection of ambiguity; Bethesda do not regard their playerbase respectfully, this binary pointing towards lessened developer confidence. Again: any given player would detonate the bomb exclusively for role-playing purposes. Knowledge of personal culpability here is distressing indeed, and for the entirety of the remaining playthrough, this destructive player, destroyer of Megaton, is forced to live always with a pervasive sense of guilt, forced to live with the knowledge that some two dozen NPCs were cut down for essentially no reason. And they were cut down for reasonless purposes: the rewards accompanying destruction are paltry indeed – the player wins the respect and admiration of Tenpenny, while the player is also awarded an apartment in his namesake Tenpenny Tower. But the respect of a corrupt, ostentatious, and affluent bastard is of no import; Megaton’s inhabitants suffered and died for nothing – other than, perhaps, role-playing purposes, any given player’s love affair with darkness. The immediate series follow-up, New Vegas, would periodically rely upon similar binaries, though its more widespread implementation of ambiguity signals series and industry progress.  

The Fable series is a logical progression of such discussions – player choice is immense, in gameplay and in narrative both. Many games valorize player choice in gameplay and in narrative, certainly; Fable and its two sequels are not totally anomalous. But many innovations do define this precise series. These innovations are sharply steeped in morality. See for instance morality’s effects on the player character, singularly mutable in nature, whether playing as male or as female. The player heavily dependent upon will (essentially magic) develops blue, zigzag lines all throughout, on the face and on the body, direct reflections of magic’s mastery. Similarly, one who embraces strength grows hulking and menacing in bulk and in deportment, while the skill user grows in stature rather than heft; the late game player character is decidedly detached from the player character seen in the narrative’s opening. The novelties characterizing these systems are overflowing, are the Fable games own signature, featured in the first game and developed in the subsequent two titles. Morality matters – if the Fable II player is consistently evil, the player character’s skin goes sallow and sickly, frightfully and repellingly so. If villainy reaches its apex, meanwhile, the player character actually sprouts a pair of demonic horns, the player character’s menace consequently increasing. Clashing this are the repercussions accompanying goodness. For if the player acts in a consistently benevolent fashion, the player character’s complexion adopts a more bronzed hue, suggestive of life and vitality, moral certitude and a generally relaxed state. If the player is completely defined by such benevolence, a literal halo emerges, rests comfortingly just above the player’s skull, visage. Mutability does, again, abound, and seeing player growth and appearance distortion prompts ample excitement, preserves player interest even as it wanes in the moments of narrative malaise, which do indeed have their place (though fortunately this place is minimized). Opportunities for moral expansion swell across this affecting, occasionally unpredictable game series. In this crucial regard, player and player character necessarily cling together; the player character becomes canvas for the player proper. This player-painter can wield bright, reassuring paints, or dark, menacing paints.

But the Fable series is much greater than this one system, for it alternately implements moral binaries and moral ambiguities, realizing the value of both. An obvious illustration is the open-ended conclusion to Fable II. The ultimate antagonist has been vanquished, the world of Albion has been saved – at least until some newer, potentially deadlier foe emerges to challenge that peace. Here, the player is presented a trio of choices – recover the fallen Albion citizens lost in the protracted and violent melee; obtain incalculable riches, seemingly of such immensity as to overflow even the most cavernous of vaults; or revive the player character’s fallen canine companion and a few other NPCs crucial to the player character’s earlier existence. Binaries again have their place – the player can choose between wealth on one hand, total altruism on the other – though the choice regarding the dog and family’s resurrection is not so easily made. It is a very tempting option, even with the knowledge that, if the player acts justly, much of Albion might be repaired and hastily, and with the simultaneous knowledge that, if the dog is revived, countless of those selfsame innocent Albion citizens, unjustly cut-down, shall forever wander in the afterlife, forcibly removed from this realer, more tangible world – and unrightly so. Temptation is indeed fierce: for the two or so dozen hours constituting Fable II’s masterful, winding narrative, a true bond is forged between player character and dog; this relationship’s intensity has still not been replicated; the bond is of dramatic intensity, and it is astounding that a literal dog is more endearing and youthful than a fleshy human NPC. Reflecting this, it is instinctual to revive the dog, even knowing of the act’s commanding selfishness, illogicalness.  

Fable II, then, advances many difficult moral decisions, decisions which reach their apex in this impressive conclusion. Fable III, for all its failings, occasionally builds upon these systems, primarily in its own end-game sequences, after the player has ascended to the throne of Albion. Throughout the narrative proper, the player makes compact after compact; the player pledges themself to this or that cause, in dire need of assistance if that selfsame throne is to be obtained, its present occupier usurped. Now, the player must choose whether to honor these compacts or break them totally and forever. Logic and human morality say – the compacts should be honored always; the player should reward those communities which had formerly provided their unwavering support. Practicality says – sometimes, sometimes the bonds must be upended, for the good of the state and for its people; departures are necessary and even advantageous in the end, for some especially bleak moral decisions cause the state’s treasuries to overflow, for instance. The eventual ruler – the player character – can use these funds in a vital and sustaining fashion; money is empowering, directly preserving the state and its inhabitants. Damnably, it is largely won though betrayal – immorality. These final hours do not compensate fully for the earlier narrative failures, but the masterful conclusion fosters ample memorability. Binaries have their place in the series, certainly – the concluding, highly ambiguous scenarios underpinning Fable III, are absent elsewhere – most frequently and most intensely in the first Fable, a title which embraces physical morphability though lacks the complexity seen elsewhere. Fable II periodically suffers from these failings, too – consider only the contrasting Temple of Avo and the Temple of Shadows. The black / white dichotomy is immense, in that the player can make ample charitable donations of actual Albion currency to that former, gayer temple, while that selfsame player can bring literal human sacrifices to that latter temple, sacrifices seemingly cut down vilely, violently. While these temples’ implementation is flawed and cliched – the temples exist merely so the player can directly influence their morality – still their implementation is valuable, largely for juxtaposition purposes; if the player sees the binaries the two temples embody, then they have greater awareness of and appreciation for moral ambiguity.  

Robust and engaging morality systems are not exclusive to the RPG genre, of course – see for instance Atlus’s masterful Catherine, a puzzle game at heart though one which also implements life simulator gameplay mechanics; the genre hybridity is essential to the game’s successes, resonances. Rather than, say, Fable II or Fable III, with their fixation on the late-game, the Catherine player is forced to make difficult moral decisions almost from the first, and this difficultness persists always towards the last. Narratively, the endearing player character and everyman Vincent Brooks is torn between two distinct figures – his longstanding, affectionately, respectfully regarded girlfriend Katherine, and the seductive and reckless Catherine, a literal succubus from some other, presumably distant, demonic, and sultry realm. Opportunities for basic role-playing do exist here, as the player can craft their own unique Vincent Brooks to an extent – the player, ever empowered in Catherine, can make consistently bleak and selfish choices (which lead Vincent to Catherine) or they can make braver, more responsible choices (which lead Vincent to Katherine). Catherine is far more enjoyable, however, when it is played in an entirely organic and truthful manner, as the player replies naturally to received text messages – penned by Catherine and Katherine both, the messages developing their respective characters – or responds honestly to the moralistic questions posed in the various nightmare sequences which constitute much of the gameplay’s bulk. Again: acting truthfully enables the player to inhabit Vincent Brooks’s metaphorical shoes; the player / player character bond surges.

And Catherine greatly excels in these moments of immersion, moments which elevate Vincent upwards towards the pantheon of wonderful, sympathetic player characters. Interestingly and novelly, too, in the especially monumental narrative decisions, rather numerous, the player has little direct say in those decision’s resolution. Instead, the end result is determined by Vincent’s location on a meter; if the player is more closely aligned to the darker pole, Vincent ultimately acts recklessly, and by implication “wrongly.” The inverse is true if Vincent clings towards the lighter, brighter end of the spectrum; such brightness becomes his guiding light, permitting him to escape from Catherine (assuming that the player desires such an outcome, assuming they have not fallen prey to the succubus’s intoxicating, commanding charms). This morality system is masterfully implemented, is one of Catherine’s greatest narrative strengths, especially when the player occupies said middle-ground on the spectrum, a location naturally won if the player acts truthfully rather than role-playing. Given this state of equilibrium, there is no easy way to predict Vincent’s behavior in these very consequential and hefty moments. In this regard, the moral choices are brimming with excitement and spontaneity, as the player is forced to puzzle over Vincent’s various actions before their execution. Here, too, a plurality of different endings incentivize repeat playthroughs and interrogations with these various morality systems – the curious player might exclusively pursue Catherine, for instance, or conversely cling to sweet-if-overbearing Katherine always and from the first. Either way, the player can turn to Catherine repeatedly and passionately, and always discover something magical. This magicalness is most readily (though not always enjoyably) obtained through deliberate morality manipulation.    

Not all video games need evince a fixation with morality – or even player empowerment. Indeed, if morality systems are scaled back, if player empowerment is scaled back, then the entire gameplay experience adopts greater and valuable directedness and focusedness: if the player is only presented with one distinct path, then the developers can expend all of their resources in crafting this single path; they are empowered, become literal curators. Questions of who exactly deserves this commanding empowerment are essential in the present moment, must be interrogated further – are developers or players more deserving of empowerment, influence? Wherever one lies on this spectrum, acknowledgements must again be made. Games which feature sprawling morality systems, multiple endings and narrative permutations, are ever prone to overreaching. If a game – see Nier Automata or its series predecessor to a lesser extent – has some two dozen endings, naturally certain of those endings are flawed indeed, even if the developers implemented those endings impressively, even if they labored in their construction. Here, subjectivity is naturally paramount. Still: that the player can determine which ending is obtained in say, Nier Automata reinforces player agency; the player feels as though their choices matter. Could they not act in a liberated fashion – whether speaking morally or in terms of gameplay systems – player empowerment would erode, a consequential statement indeed – player empowerment is worthy of cherishment, absolutely. Fortunately, this worthiness has been recognized and nurtured in recent years. Holdovers invariably exist: static games have their place, as do games devoid of morality, even as that void diminishes potential player resonances.

Sometimes it is enjoyable to inhabit a player character defined by darkness and defined by villainy – see most obviously, say, Agent 47 from the Hitman series, that protagonist an actual assassin by trade. The developers may periodically emphasize his humanity, though still the fact remains – here is a figure who slaughters for coin, and for the security accompanying these successful murders. Indeed, titles like the Hitman series feature increasingly elaborate murders and chains of murders; impenetrable darkness reigns supreme. As the path of destruction is ever pursued, the player / player character bond potentially suffers, as an entire portion of the playerbase, those repelled by darkness and vileness, are irrecoverably and ever alienated – the Hitman series is especially flawed, even as the titles themselves are focused narratively (though featuring ample gameplay flexibility, a flexibility expanded upon with every subsequent release). Ultimately, one is hopeful that these discussions of player empowerment persist, that blackness and whiteness will together coexist with greyness and ambiguity. But total coexistence has not yet been obtained, and some games wrongly infringe upon the playerbase, fumble in execution. Much of this infringement stems from expectation, flawed developer thinking processes; for many studios, morality system’s potential valorization means such morality systems must be implemented in some distinct fashion. And so games like Grand Theft Auto IV release. For all its narrative mastery – see the wonderful and highly stylized cinematics, regularly and fiercely emphasized – missteps are made, particularly in the closing moments. Here, the player character, Niko, can slaughter the ultimate antagonist and walk away satisfied – or at least as satisfied as one can feel after executing a murder, even as the victim was deserving of their fate. Alternately, the player can spare this corrupt NPC and in turn receive a hefty sum of cash. While the choice is rather affecting and not so easily made – ambiguity has its place, as the player is forced to puzzle over the detained antagonist, whether or not his persisting humanity disqualifies him from murder and absolution – still the choice seems woefully out of place, anomalous. True, earlier in the game, the player was presented with similar matters, tasked with choosing which NPC would die, which would live. But these decisions’ inclusions do not negate their apparent arbitrariness; Rockstar included these choices out of expectation. This arbitrariness is, of course, a major failing, and this arbitrariness’s existence again communicates this vital message: for all their challenging and engaging poignancy, their magicalness, robust morality systems are simply incompatible with certain video games genres and experiences. Widespread awareness of this incompatibility largely advantages the industry, enables liberation by reducing expectation. But coexistence must dominate – the highly moralistic experience must be preserved, championed, ever and always.