Dear Difficulty

March 9, 2011 § Leave a comment

Difficulty is entrenched in the DNA of every modern videogame. Back in the days of arcades, where games were sold by the life, difficulty was needed to make money. You made your game difficult in order to drain the pockets of your audience. The less time you provided for their quarter, the better. 

The time of arcades is now past. Cabinets are slowly but surely being sold off to nostalgic collectors or destroyed altogether. Surely then, the need for difficulty no longer exists? The traditional philosophy behind making money is gone – now the more entertainment time you provide the better.
But we still need it, we still crave the satisfaction of tussling with a game, the sense of accomplishment when we walk out the other side victorious. Whether we like it or not – and we almost certainly do – difficulty is going to be with videogames until Mr. Kotick kills them off completely.
There are two kinds of difficulty though, one which only hardens the player’s resolve in times of crisis, and another which has been known to turn the most serene of individuals into emotional wrecks. The latter is often referred to as ‘cheap’ difficulty; the former I see as being ‘dear.’ What exactly is it that divides the two, and how can games do their bit to safeguard the controllers of the world?
It’s your fault
The appeal of video games, not surprisingly, is rooted in control. Like it or not, control of our lives (our real ones that is) is constantly being wrenched away from us. A petty thief, an incompetent co-worker, an immoral politician, all of these individuals can exhort influence on our lives, often completely without our consent. Sure we have influence, we can vote, or work ourselves off our feet day after day, but in the end these are contributing factors rather than deciding ones. 

That’s the difference between the real world and a virtual one. A real world is built upon chaos; a virtual one is built on mathematical rules. If you complete these puzzles correctly and then navigate that series of platforms flawlessly, then without a shadow of a doubt you can save the world, and even rescue your princess/son/cake in the process.
If there’s a point here it’s that failure needs to make sense, and this means making any immanent failure apparent to the player. Projectiles from an unseen foe, invisible traps, all of these things take control of the protagonist’s fate away from the player, and invariably harm the experience. No one likes to die, but its more bearable when you know it’s your fault.
Treat others as you wish to be treated
Nothing feels like a kick in the crotch more than when you manage to get completely decimated by an enemy. This can happen quite a bit in Bayonetta, a game I happen to be particularly fond of. It’s almost criminally easy to get caught by a lightening fast uppercut, and spend upwards of thirty seconds in the air, being batted backwards and forwards with very little regard for your own safety. 

Given a little practice though, the situation will be entirely reversed, and you can spend literally minutes knocking an enemy senseless whilst it struggles to find its way back down to earth. The rules governing both Bayonetta and her opponents are largely identical; so anything that can be done to you can be returned in due course. In other words the bigger the punishment you go through, the sweeter the retribution will be. 
This rule also covers any environmental damage that may occur to your character. If an enemy boss emits a wave attack, this should affect other enemies just as much as it does you. If ledges exist which you can fall down, then your opponents need to face exactly the same risk.
Making this a priority means making a game which feels difficult, but never unfairly difficult; a fact which will go a long way in frustrating your players.

It’s Not a Numbers Game
Spending ages whittling down the health of a single enemy is rarely much fun, especially when it’s not your skill but your patience that’s being tested. Equally, being bombarded with dozens of enemies isn’t fun either. Despite this, increasing enemy numbers and hit points is a primary method used by developers to increase difficulty. 

If players choose to run through a game on a higher difficulty, you can be fairly certain they’ve already beaten the game on a less punishing difficulty. Unless they’re the kind of person who likes to ramp up every game to insane on their first playthrough – a problem easy solved with unlockable difficulty levels – they’re probably looking for something a little different for their second time.
Different enemies, player handicaps, alternate mission objectives, all of these things force the player to engage with the game differently in ways beyond simply being more cautious. If your audience are actually invested enough in your game to dive straight back in then you better serve up something new.
In a Perfect World
Were we to don our utopian hats for a moment and peer into the future, we might look for one devoid of difficulty levels entirely. After all, the thing which separates people who play on different settings is likely not that they wish to be punished more or less, but that they’re that little more accomplished at games, and really want the same level of challenge as everyone else.
It’s not too difficult to imagine how a difficulty-less game might work. It starts every player on a standard difficulty, taking stock of the amount of damage and time they take during each level. At the end, a nifty little script gets run to see if they’re finding the game too easy or too hard; and then silently moves the slider one way or t’other. 

The first Devil May Cry did this, but in a very obtuse way. If you died too much within the first few levels, a screen would pop up asking if you might like to play on ‘Easy’. You never accepted this help though, because you were too proud, instead opting to die dozens of times in your frantic search for ‘coolitude.’
Such a system would be hard to implement without producing a constantly fluctuating difficulty curve, but it’s a topic worth mulling over at any rate. At a point in time where so many get so irate at the ‘dumbing down’ of modern games, putting more effort into modes just for them might be a way to keep an audience engaged that would otherwise leave for greener pastures.
At any rate it’s worth noting my first two suggestions apply whether difficulty levels exist or not.
Difficulty is neither a bad nor a good thing, the deciding factor is always down to the quality of the game. For anyone –let alone a blogger with no design experience – to claim the existence of an easy solution would be naive at best, but that’s not to say that thinking just that little more about such a staple of game design wouldn’t reap dividends.

Review Graphs

March 6, 2011 § Leave a comment

Review scores have come under their fair share of scrutiny over the years. Many have claimed that any attempt to distil a complex opinion expressed over hundreds of words into a single number is inevitably going to lose a great deal in translation. Others take issue with the way publishers have reportedly been using Metacritic scores to determine a development studio’s salary bonuses.

Numerical scores aren’t going anywhere any time soon; they fulfil simply too many useful functions – chief among them being the automatic ranking of every game an outlet ever reviews. That being the case, would it not be beneficial to look at how scores can be improved, rather than simply threatening to eliminate them entirely?

For example, a review score is a very constant identifier of a game’s overall merit, but as we all know, many games will waver in quality over time. Even the greatest games will trip up now and again, and even the worst will contain flashes of brilliance.

Let’s start then, with a simple graph.


On the X (horizontal) axis we have the game’s playtime, and on the Y (vertical) axis we have the game’s relative score. Note here the use of the word relative. It would of course be ridiculous to claim that any review score has an absolute value. Thus, in terms of our charts, any position given, is given relative to those surrounding it.

Tangent time: a similar tactic is used in the field of Economics. Graphs showing the relative profits given by differing levels of production exist not to show a company the exact level which will grant them maximum profit, but instead in which general direction they should expect prices, costs etc to move should any one of the variables change. So we know that if we break up a water supplier (a natural monopoly) into several smaller companies, prices will rise, but we don’t know by how much. Understanding this isn’t really important in this context though, so don’t think about it too much.

So what categories would our favourite games fall into?

An obvious first choice is ‘The Grower’. Its review graph is shown below.

As you may have guessed, a grower is a game which well…grows on you. It starts off a little slowly, perhaps not explaining itself too well, or maybe just bombarding you with unfamiliar gameplay elements. Over time though you grow accustomed to its mechanics and intricacies, and end the game on a fantastic high.

Ocarina of Time filled this description perfectly for me. Since it was the first Legend of Zelda game I’d ever touched, playing through the opening few areas was a little daunting. I didn’t understand very basic concepts such as needing to use a dungeon’s new item to defeat its boss, and I found its lack of hand-holding completely at odds with my modern gaming sensibilities.

As time passed I began to lose myself in it. Dungeon layouts started to make sense, and I no longer needed to religiously run to Gamefaqs when an area stumped me. There were still moments of frustration as I progressed, but these all but disappeared by the time I came to rescue that poor Zelda.

Similar to the grower is the ‘Penny-Dropper’ shown below.

You’ll notice that the general trend in the graph is the same, albeit far more severe. A penny-dropper is a game that all makes sense in an instant. Until that point it’s very easy to give up, very easy to walk away with the knowledge that you made the right choice. You’d be missing out of course, as the second half of the graph so clearly shows, but that doesn’t exactly make your decision wrong.

I can’t help but think of Final Fantasy XIII when I think of this review graph, such was its unrelenting mediocrity for its first dozen hours. When the world opens up, when the combat system is finally unlocked, the game becomes good, even great, but that’s not to say die hard fans won’t agree the first part of the game comes close to being not worth the trouble.

On the more negative end of the spectrum we have ‘The Gimmick’, a game which bases its entire premise on a single mechanic, which it then manages to completely squander, and run into the ground through sheer repetition. Here’s a graph.

I think Fracture falls into this category without much contention. Few would argue that basing your game around the ability to raise and lower terrain is necessarily a bad thing. In fact if Valve were to turn around tomorrow and announce its inclusion as a puzzle mechanic in Portal 2 you’d be utterly stocked to play with it. The problem with Fracture though was that – quite apart from the fact the rest of the game was beyond mediocre – it really failed to do anything new with this neat idea beyond the first level.

Fracture then, was a gimmicky game based around a gimmick. A traditional review would give little credit to such a game, since clearly a reviewer is going to have very little of his or her initial excitement left by the end of the game. Does the initial idea deserve some credit though? Probably.

Graph-porn aside, there’s an underlying question here that needs answering. What would the perfect game look like? You could claim that the perfect game would look a little like this.

You might even go a little further, and claim that it should leave you wanting more.

The truth is though, that there is no perfect game, and this is something that review scores have managed to magnificently ignore over the years. A 10 score is so loaded I’d be scared to even stamp it at the bottom of a page, such is the weight and expectation such a label carries. A number requires so much justification, and then so much interpretation at the reader’s end. One man’s perfect arc might be another’s hump.

We try and claim that readers should make their purchases based upon the content of reviews rather than the scores, but this really ignores the reason for scores being there in the first place. Reviews are dense pieces of text, with multiple pieces of information within each paragraph. It’s impossible to recite every pro and con of a game after reading a review, and then you have to consider the fact that you’ll read dozens of reviews over just one holiday period.

Easy to parse summaries are an essential part of games journalism, not because their audience are juvenile or stupid, but because there’s far more factors which can affect your potential enjoyment of a game than your average album, not to mention the fact that the cost is that much higher.

So maybe, rather than dismissing the whole concept of scores entirely, we should be trying to work out how we can evolve them as a language. At the very least we can use them as a means to think about our favourite games a little differently.

So what games do you reckon would fit into the categories laid out above? Better still, are there any graphs I’ve missed altogether? Let me know in the comments below.

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