In defence of Final Fantasy XIII

Final Fantasy XIII, the latest iteration of Square Enix’s long running and celebrated Japanese RPG series, has come under flac in some quarters for its linearity. In one of the more balanced reviews of the game, Edge admitted that once the game hits its stride at about the 25 hour mark it has some of the most interesting gameplay mechanics in the series, although these are drip fed into the game at such sparse intervals it sometimes seems like your playing the mother of all tutorials, and by which point all but the most dedicated of the series’ fans still have it’s undivided attention. Edge calls this a ‘disaster of pacing’ and in many ways this is correct. Fans of the western-style RPG, a genre that has peaked in the last five years or so, have used this as an opportunity to criticise the old fashioned Japanese RPG (JRPG) for its out dated structures. Responses from Japan that western gamers just ‘don’t understand’ the first half of the game haven’t exactly helped break the cultural stalemate.

The argument is that western RPGs are more modern because they are based on freedom of player choice; often including narratives with multiple endings based on moral choices and open sandbox environments – all things that can be seen in abundance in some of the most successful recent iterations of the genre: Fallout 3, Oblivion, Mass Effect, and Dragon Age. Meanwhile JRPGs present the player with a single well-told story that does not accommodate player choice and ends at a single point (when the credits roll). For some this makes JRPGs closer to a static artform like a book or a movie rather than the interactive medium of video games, which should be based on player agency. Of course it is tempting to schematise this into a crude analogy of two differing ideological structures. Whilst western games emerge from a socio-political tradition of democracy and individualism, Japanese games stem from a more rigidly structured society that emphasises conformity over self expression.

However in narrative terms this simply doesn’t wash. The Final Fantasy series has always offered a narrative that pits the heroic individual against the status quo – whether that takes the form of the Shinra Corporation draining the planet’s life force in Final Fantasy VII, the oppressive military establishment in Final Fantasy VIII or the manipulative religious institution in Final Fantasy X – and Final Fantasy XIII is no exception to this tradition. The game is set on Cacoon, a floating shell with an entire world built on its inner surface, constructed and maintained by the god-like Fal’cie, who benignly care for their human charges – although there is undoubtedly a dark purpose behind their actions. Scarring Cacoon’s surface is a gaping hole, a remnant of the War of Transgression with Pulse, when the creature Ragnorak almost succeeded in breaching it. Pulse is the world above which Cacoon floats, which despite having never been glimpsed by a single soul on Cacoon, is feared and reviled by its entire populace.

The game begins with the seaside town of Bodhum on Cacoon being ruthlessly purged by the government after its inhabitants come into contact with a reviled Fal’Cie from Pulse, which had been lying dormant for centuries. The claim that they are being ‘relocated to Pulse’ is actually a cover for a massacre. At the beginning of the game we join our protagonists on the Purge train, and although many of them don’t know one another yet, they all become instrumental in leading a rebellion. After a series of events that leads them all into contact with the same Pulse Fal’Cie that caused the Purge in the first place, they are transformed into l’Cie, human thralls that the Fal’cie choose to carry out a specific mission called a ‘focus’. As l’Cie they are granted powerful magic and consequently become complete outcasts from human society. What’s more if they don’t fulfil their focus within the allotted time they will be turned into monstrous Cie’th, but unfortunately the vision they all share isn’t clear on whether their focus is to destroy or save Cacoon. The characters are divided in their decisions. Whilst the girlish Vanille and Sazh (a blaxploitation-esque character with a baby chocobo living in his afro) decide to ignore their new destiny and run away, Lightning (a former soldier) refuses to submit to her fate and rashly sets off to bring down the Fal’Cie and destroy Cacoon, with the young boy Hope tagging along hoping she can aid him in his misguided quest for revenge. Meanwhile Snow, who inadvertently caused the death of Hope’s mother, remains optimistic and strikes off to save Cacoon spurred on by his fiancée’s last words. The motivation behind their actions is explored in this first half, which concerns itself with slowly bringing the disparate characters together into a unified group. This is a very different approach to the standard structure of picking up allies as you go along and, thanks also to some of the series’ deepest characterisation yet (although still not totally free of common JRPG character types), the result is a combat team built of meaningful relationships that the player can invest in emotionally.


A massive part of the genre, something shared by both Japanese and western RPGs, are the town locations; places where the player can take some time out from the battle to shop, trade, and pick up side quests from NPCs (‘non player characters’ – basically anyone who speaks to you in game who isn’t under your control). However in Final Fantasy XIII all of the shopping is done ‘online’ through save points and there are no towns or NPCs, just an endless narrow road that you are corralled down with very little chance for exploration. If this sounds pretty bleak, then it is in a way, but I also believe this linearity is a daring example of the game’s form reflecting its content – even to the point of overhauling the traditions of the series and the expectations of the audience. Reviled by the people and hunted by the government as hated outsiders and revolutionaries, the five protagonists are hopeless fugitives, inexorably forced towards the destiny that is their focus. This is the reason they don’t go to any towns or meet any people; they can’t. It’s not that it was too ‘difficult’ for the development team to construct realistic towns in such breathtaking graphics, as some have suggested. In short the first 25 hours of the game are successful in placing you in the shoes of the protagonists and making you feel the same sense of frustration that they are feeling in the story, through the gameplay.

This also goes someway towards explaining the game’s auto-combat system, where in fights a single press of the action button stocks a series of context specific actions tailored towards exploiting the enemy’s weaknesses. Of course it’s possible to go into the menus and select your own actions, but it’s highly ill-advised as the fights are normally quite difficult and unlike other games in the series your enemy doesn’t bother to wait for you to make your selection before pummelling you into a bloody pulp. Whilst many have seen this as a concession to the worst elements of casual gaming, where the challenge is diluted down to accommodate a wider audience, usually resulting in less buttons to press, this feature is vital to maintain the dramatic pace of the fights. Eventually the paradigm system becomes fully available, allowing you to train each character in a series of roles – the magic casting ravager, the damage dealing commando, the healing medic – and to switch between them throughout the battle. If the game truly was appealing to casual gamers the fights wouldn’t be as difficult as they are, and also the paradigm system is a highly original addition to the series and adds a level of interaction that was removed by the auto-battle system.

After 25 hours of being funnelled down the undoubtedly beautiful corridors of Cacoon, you finally find the inevitable airship and make your way to Pulse. Almost instantly the game opens up. Pulse is made up of wide vistas and open play areas filled with huge beasts that seem to be playing out the process of natural selection, rather than just being there for you to kill. The game finally allows you to explore and offers side quests in the form of ‘stone missions’, where basically you take on the failed focus of a l’Cie, which normally requires you to hunt down a mark for a grand reward, ala Final Fantasy XII. The most impressive thing here, though, is the way the game’s dramatic new openness reflects the character’s own broadened horizons. As citizens of Cacoon the larger part of your group will have been raised on propaganda that insisted Pulse to be a hell on earth, and likewise for the past 25 hours you as a gamer have only been on Cacoon, so you share the character’s sense of revelation (not to mention relief) as the environment, as well as the gameplay, opens up. Rather than being criticised for its linearity the game should be appreciated for its daring to do something new with formal structure. After all this is what embodies the recent entries to the Final Fantasy series, with Final Fantasy X scrapping the age-old character levelling system in favour of the ingenious sphere grid and Final Fantasy XII’s revolutionary gambit system, which has recently been copied so thoroughly by Dragon Age (perhaps demonstrating that the western RPG isn’t always as original as it claims to be).

Moral intelligence in games vs general ignorance in daytime TV

On Thursday a few friends and I attended an event at the National Science Museum’s Dana Centre entitled ‘What are Games Really Teaching Us?’, which sought to look at the ideologies and moral frameworks embedded into video games. It’s part of a season curated by the queen of geeks, and my ideal woman, Aleks Krotoski. However no amount of Mario Kart Wii could make up for the fact that she wasn’t there in person (although perhaps it’s just as well as I would have probably embarrassed myself).

The panellists who were present were John Kirriemuir, Pat Kane (author of The Play Ethic) and
Sophie Blakemore (a game designer). John mainly concentrated on the most literal reading of the title of the night by discussing gaming as an educational aid. The idea of replacing the curriculum with an RPG style levelling-up system to motivate learning is certainly an idea I’d love to see rolled out in state schools (congratulations, you have levelled up to class 3 and acquired a +5 modifier to trigonometry). Meanwhile Pat, whose book argues that the act of play is just as important to human functioning as work, sleep or nutrition, was coming from a socio-political charged perspective and provided the most interesting food for thought when he suggested that the very nature of videogames echoed the ideals of the anti-globalisation movement because “every game you play lets you realise that another world is possible”. However I couldn’t help but feel there was still a sense of pessimism within the panel that the ‘commercial’ games industry was lacking when it came to a moral intelligence.

I personally feel that this is completely ungrounded. On the contrary commercial video games have never been as morally complex and sophisticated as they are now. You need only glance at a shelf of recent releases: Bioshock 2’s story revolves around philosophical notions of control and ethical inheritance, whilst Mass Effect 2 further perfects Bioware’s trademark game mechanic of moral choices, as does Heavy Rain. In fact games that don’t seem to deal with morality appear to be in the minority. The Fable series has always given the player a choice between good and evil, and has strived to make the evil path as difficult to follow as possible. The third game in the series, currently in development, will give the player the chance to become the ruler of the kingdom, potentially embedding those moral choices within a complex social setting and allowing the game to comment on political systems. Perhaps this emphasis on morality in games is a product of the increase of realism in next generation games; a strong sense of responsibility is emerging within the industry and there is a sense in games design for the need to mitigate the realistic scenes of violence that are predominant in gameplay (after all the majority of games do revolve around killing) with a moral narrative framework.

One game that this new morality doesn’t seem to have affected too much is Grand Theft Auto. I recently got into a discussion with two friends about GTA4. Friend ‘a’ defended the game and its violent, nihilistic aesthetic as a pure fantasy and escapism, whilst friend ‘b’ argued that the game’s environment was presented too much as a simulacrum of reality to excuse or justify its content. I’ve always had a bit of a love/hate relationship with GTA; resenting it for proudly becoming a flashpoint for moral outcry against gaming in general (whilst benefiting from the publicity that ensues), whilst simultaneously admiring it as a great piece of satire (anyone who has tuned into the games talk radio stations will know what I mean) and for offering an unrepentantly fun and anarchic vision of gaming without feeling the need to justify itself. The issue of player agency and interactivity muddies the moral waters somewhat here, but I think one of the great things about the game is its ambiguity – it’s just not clear what the game is saying about gang violence (should games even be obliged to strike a moral stance?). At the end of the day it’s your choice to run over innocent bystanders or plant car bombs outside hotdog stalls – and even if you choose to do that (like me) it’s more likely because you appreciate it as a moment of escapism (or absurdist humour)rather than a lesson for life.

In spite of its growing acceptance as a cultural art form (see coverage in The Guardian G2 magazine and particularly Charlie Brooker’s defence of the medium) and its important position in the British economy, video games are apparently still an easy scapegoat to lazy politicians and self promotional conservative commentators. The biggest recent example of this is a ‘debate’ on the subject of gaming on Alan Titchmarsh’s day time show on ITV. The staggering level of ignorance displayed here is utterly dumbfounding, with Titchmarsh seemingly unable to even read the names of the games correctly off the auto-cue. One wonders whether he would show the same dedication to journalistic integrity if he were going to interview, say, the minister of defence about the situation in Iran. Perhaps he’d find out a little bit about the country that was to be the subject of his show before hand (like where it was, or how to pronounce it). In fact the entire premise of the piece was built around the inaccurate presumption that games were still for kids, even when one of the panellist quite rightly mentions that the average gaming age is 33, and that games are subject to the same age restrictions as films. They’d invited Tim Ingham, editor of CVG, to defend the medium and then proceeded to cut off his every comment and instructed the audience to boo him (perhaps I’m ignorant of daytime TV and Titchmarsh’s show is actually a pantomime?). Basically the whole thing is a despicable witch hunt. You can read Tim’s entirely reasonable response to the whole affair here. And if it gets your gall as much as it does mine, then you can view and sign the petition here.

As gaming as a medium breaks away from being a solitary teenage pursuit to a vital industry and a vibrant artform, it’s becoming all the more important that the ignorance that surrounds the general public’s perception of games is addressed and rectified. The British games industry alone is in fact worth around 1.5 billion pounds and is one of the country’s most flourishing industries, which even the government has realised as they’ve given the games industry tax breaks in the latest Budget. Video Games have also recently received their own BAFTA ceremony, which will hopefully go some way towards clearing up the ignorance surrounding the medium as well as awarding the incredibly creative people that work within it.

It’s funny that no amount of tearing around Liberty City running over old ladies has actually made me want to do it in real life. The only thing that’s made me want to kill someone recently is the Alan Titchmarsh show (or at least trample his tomatoes).

Dusk to Dusk: The death and rebirth of the adventure game

I’ll start with a piece of very sad news. The creators of the Nintendo DS masterpiece Hotel Dusk have recently declared bankruptcy according to a post on Kotaku . But why should anyone care about an obscure, tiny Japanese studio that turned out games that interested a small minority of people? Well I believe that the genre that Cing embodied is far more important than many would think.

Released in 2007, Hotel Dusk was an interactive detective story in an evocative style. Set in a mysterious small town American motel, you played Kyle Hyde, a former police officer, who discovers that every one of the motel’s intriguing inhabitants to be connected in some way to the disappearance of his former partner. The game is based almost entirely on turning up information through dialogue and to play the game the DS is tipped to the side like a book, with Kyle on one screen and the person you’re talking to on the other, elegantly illustrated in a rotascope sketchbook style. Although not a runaway hit, as with games like Ico, Hotel Dusk showed verve and stylistic originality and has acquired a cult following with gamers looking for a somewhat different experience. Unfortunately the company’s uncompromising approach to videogame narrative has obviously taken a financial toll and so on March 1 the company tragically folded with a reported 200 million yen in debt. The biggest question that is hanging on everyone’s lips is will Last Window: Mayonaka no Yakusoku, the sequel to Hotel Dusk recently released in Japan, ever make it over to Europe?

It seems particularly tragic that this company, which started out attempting to tread a new path in game narrative with the PS2 title Glass Rose in 1997, should fail just as the point and click renaissance builds momentum. Games like Zack and Wiki, Sam and Max, and the recently released Ghost Pirates of Voojoo Island show the genre is not simply a nostalgic resurfacing but is making a full fledged come back with fresh ideas and IPs. Soon even Jane Jensen, the creator of the classic Gabriel Knight series released by Seirra, will be releasing her new work Grey Matter (published by Mamba games who, along with Tell Tale Games, are proving to be leading lights in the new point and click movement). Because its simple mechanics and emphasis on story telling over action flies in the face of next generation gaming, the suggestion is that this is a niche genre best tackled by independent studios using new digital distribution networks – networks that have seen quirky titles like Sam and Max and Machinarium become so successful. Studio Cing were more of a traditional games company, putting expensive boxed releases out into games shops to compete with the latest blockbusters, rather than using viral publicity and a strong web presence to gently grow an audience like Tell Tale Games.

That said one recent release couldn’t care less about what I’ve just said. Quantic Dream’s Heavy Rain, released exclusively on PS3 on 24 February, is behemoth of a game backed with a publicity campaign and production values that are on par with any next gen release. Apparently nobody told the creator and CEO of Quantic Dream, David Cage, that this genre was next to impossible to pull of in the form of a traditional release, or at least if they did he thankfully turned up the volume of Flight of the Valkyries and continued pursuing his dream. Because, for all its visual flare and impressive cinematics Heavy Rain is essentially a very sophisticated adventure game, in which the point and click elements have been switched with Bioware style diologue trees and an interface built almost entirely around QTEs (Quick Time Events, where buttons shown on the screen have to be input rapidly by the player). Indeed, one of Cage’s biggest triumphs in the game is to make this much criticised ‘lazy’ gameplay mechanic not only functional, but exhilarating.

Perhaps Heavy Rain is an indication of the adventure genre coming of age. If Rockstar’s new game LA Noire is anything to go by game narrative could be heading somewhere very interesting indeed. Very crudely this project looks to be a mixture of Grand Theft Auto, with its open city setting a meticulously recreated 1940s LA, mixed with Heavy Rain’s complex plotting and emphasis on player choice. Each of the games cases turn around investigating crime scenes based on actual police records and have a complex variety of outcomes, based on the evidence you collect, the attitude you take to grilling witnesses or finally whether you’re able to put everything together and catch the killer. Once upon a time, when storylines in videogames were merely a loose pretext for the gameplay (Mario: the princess has been kidnapped by Bowser… again), the point and click adventure (with games like Broken Sword and Monkey Island) had a hand in bringing intelligent scripts and deep plots to gaming, enriching the entire art form. Now, when it seems that story in games is once again undergoing a radical transition, you can detect the resurgence of the humble adventure game in the background. That is why the closure of Studio Cing, one of the leading lights in the field, is such a tragedy.