Acknowledging the Controller: Art, Video Games, Violence, and Self-Reflexivity

Not so long ago, at another blog, I made an admittedly brief attempt to explain why video games are undoubtedly art, or rather, why video games undoubtedly have the potential to become art. Allow me the time to develop this argument at greater length.

The problem with defining something as art is that "art" itself, as a term, really has no accepted definition. Many definitions have been applied to it, but none have gone uncontested. And so, the battle to be legitimized as an "art" is an uphill battle for all new and fledgling mediums. Since art has never been acceptably defined (perhaps a topic for another blogging), those who see new mediums as distasteful need not discuss the mediums in relation to any sort of facts, because there are no facts, because the terminology always breaks down into a semantic argument, and it becomes a rhetorical strategy: "Well, that’s what you call art, but that doesn’t make it so." Instead, they can rely on the all too easy tactic of pointing to what is considered one of the greatest works of art ever conceived (whether it be Hamlet, or Ulysses, or Guernica, or Citizen Kane) and they can say, "THIS is art." And they can then point to a work in the new medium, one that demonstrates no imagination, is unnecessarily violent, etc. and they can say "And if Hamlet, et al. are art, then this new medium surely is not." To them the proof is self-evident, and they get away with such weak argumentation, because, well, no one would dare say that Manhunt trumps Hamlet. And so the discussion is too often considered closed.

Roger Ebert, a commentator and writer I enjoy and have immense respect for, unfortunately, has written statements that exemplify this attitude. On the topic, he once wrote: "no one in or out of the field [of video games] has ever been able to cite a game worthy of comparison with the great dramatists, poets, filmmakers, novelists and composers." What a terribly unfair argument. When film was in its infancy, were any of its works worthy of comparison to the great dramatists, poets, novelists, and composers? Of course not. Mediums take time to grow and develop. To expect the Xbox Ulysses at this point in the medium’s history is ridiculous. However, to turn this argument around, I would tell Ebert that I’ve played video games of greater beauty, depth, and ambition than, say…(the overbearing) Crash, a movie Ebert raved and gave a four star review. But, that doesn’t satisfy me (because I don’t particularly like Crash, but let’s not turn this into an anti-Crash tirade). Instead, let me turn to another Ebert quote: "…books,games and all forms of created experience are about themselves; the real question is, do we as their consumers become more or less complex, thoughtful, insightful, witty, empathetic, intelligent, philosophical (and so on) by experiencing them?" I would agree that this is the important question, and it’s beautifully and simply worded. And, to Ebert, I would say, "Yes, I have played games that have made me become more complex, thoughtful, and philosophical."

And so, I will no longer bother myself with comparisons or semantic arguments about what is or isn’t art (I’ll probably slip up on that, but I shall try to resist). Instead, I’d like to focus on the games themselves.

It is my personal opinion that one of the premiere video game artists working today (perhaps one of the premiere artists in the—admittedly short—history of the medium) is Hideo Kojima, the man behind the Metal Gear series.

There are many, many layers to the Metal Gear series, and there are countless topics I could approach, whether they are aesthetic or ideological (or, of course, the way these two things constantly interact). Perhaps these will become the topics of future posts. But for now, I’d like to focus on Kojima’s tendency to break the fourth wall in his games, not only because of his expertise in implementing this particular technique, but also because it is, I believe, indicative of one of the most fascinating and unique features of the medium: its interactivity.

In Metal Gear Solid, Kojima chips away at the fourth wall early in the game by choosing to have Snake’s radio team explain instructions to him; they make several references to the "action button." By integrating the instructions into the game as opposed to delivering them in some sort of tutorial or aside, Kojima hints at a penchant for self-reflexivity that will become full-blown later in the game (and in his future works). The moment where the boundary between game and player completely breaks away comes during the "boss fight" (a little video game jargon for you) with Psycho Mantis. This is really a tour de force of game design, and I think, will be looked at for some time for its formal inventiveness. Psycho Mantis is a psychic soldier, and Kojima does not waste the opportunity that such a conceit affords.

At certain points during the fight, the screen blacks out and only the word "Hideo" appears in green font in the corner of the screen. This is meant to replicate the "Video" setting on televisions, but, of course, is adjusted ever so slightly to include a play on the word "video" and Hideo’s name (He’s always been rather witty). But the most remarkable feature of the fight is that Mantis is almost impossible to hit with any weapon. Why? Well, he can read Snake’s mind and predict his movements. So how does the gamer overcome this obstacle? They are required to remove the controller from controller port 1 and plug it into port 2. Kojima requires active manipulation of the hardware to advance in the game. It’s startling, and immensely clever. Such "meta" moments become more pervasive and profound in the two sequels. Here, though the fight is, as I said, incredibly inventive formally, it seems a fairly self-contained feature. In the two sequels, Kojima’s self-reflexivity is much more pivotal to his themes, and to the overall harmony of the experience.

Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty has become a title both revered and reviled in the gaming community. It was recognized for the quality of its craftsmanship, but often criticized for its convoluted plot and the inclusion of the androgynous Raiden as the game’s primary protagonist, as opposed to the popular (and very masculine) Snake. Make no mistake: this game is a masterpiece of the medium. It’s true that the game is awkward at times, but its ambition and scope are mind-boggling, and most complaints and weaknesses are overshadowed by the successes.

Sons of Liberty has often been referred to as the first "post-modern" video game (though this term is almost as difficult to define as "art"), and it is labeled as such largely because, whereas the original Metal Gear Solid contained touches of self-reflexivity, Sons of Liberty becomes one massive exercise in the technique. The game is, quite literally, designed as a rehash of the first Metal Gear Solid. The similarities between the two games are so striking that gamers might initially be uncomfortable, thinking that they’ve been cheated out of their money. But it all serves a purpose.

Gamers find out that Raiden actually experienced the Shadow Moses incident ("Shadow Moses" is the code name given to the events of the first Metal Gear Solid) through virtual reality training. And, hopefully, gamers make a connection: they, too, experienced Shadow Moses as a virtual reality simulation (because this is precisely what video games are). As it turns out, a seemingly omnipotent force (known simply as the Patriots) pre-meditated and designed the events that unfold in Metal Gear Solid 2 (the events are termed the "S3 Plan,") and the S3 Plan was designed to purposely reconstruct Shadow Moses.

So, if we are Raiden (given that we experience Shadow Moses in the same way the character does, and of course, because we literally control him), and the game is the S3 Plan (seeing as how the game CD is the actual program designed to force the gamer through certain events, just as S3 forces Raiden through certain events), then, in turn this means that our Playstation 2 is Arsenal Gear (a massive fortress featured in the story that houses an Artificial Intelligence that monitors and enacts the S3 Plan) because the Playstation houses the game CD. And, finally, Kojima is the Patriots, because he designed the game (and thus designed the S3 plan).

And, as with the Psycho Mantis battle, Kojima makes full use of the opportunities such a bizarre conceit allows. At one point in the game, the characters upload a virus into the AI that controls the S3 plan. Shortly after this development, the game begins malfunctioning. One of the members of Raiden’s radio team (who turns out to be part of the AI) begins speaking gibberish, or referencing previous games in the Metal Gear saga. The gamer’s radar malfunctions and becomes a video feed of a woman sitting in a chair on a porch. And, at random points, the "Mission Failed" screen pops up (essentially a "game over" screen), except the text on the screen is altered: "Fission Mailed." It reaches a point of disorienting surrealism and is perhaps the only time I have felt overwhelmed by a video game and truly realized the potential of the medium.

Kojima has designed a game that knows it is a game, a simulation that knows it is a simulation. The relationships between the elements of the plot in the game are perfectly mirrored in the "real" world. Regardless of what one thinks of the fluidity and grace of Kojima’s writing, this parallel is a stroke of unqualified genius: this is a flawless implementation of artistic self-referentiality. As James Clinton Howell points out in this brilliant analysis:http://www.deltaheadtranslation.com/MGS2/DOTM_TOC.htm (which goes into much greater depth than I have room to here) the game truly asks its gamers to consider how they are primed to accept and expect certain information, given their familiarity with the events of the game (having had a near-identical experience in MGS). As Howell demonstrates, it simultaneously establishes, fulfills, and thwarts expectation and, further, blurs the line between fiction and reality by utterly obliterating the fourth wall (Kojima is no longer chipping away at it, he has launched a full-frontal assault). Sons of Liberty is a purposely disorienting experience that expertly interrogates its audience: what is perception? Does perception determine reality, or reality determine perception?


In Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater, Kojima pulled back on the flights of meta fancy. But, of course, he did not completely eliminate them. In fact, in a battle with a boss named "The Sorrow" Kojima implements a self-reflexive touch that might be the purest distillation of one of his overarching concerns throughout the series (and is, I think, the likely reason that he continues to use self-reflexive strategies). That concern is the violence that is implicit in a war-game. And this violence is nearly inseparable from the medium itself (there is no denying that the video game is a medium of genres, and typically violent genres). Kojima has always been concerned with implicating the gamer in the violence enacted on the screen. Video games take the inherent voyeurism of cinema a step further. Now we do not just watch (which, in reality, watching is not a passive action in the least, but is perhaps less active than our interactions with video games), but rather we initiate the violence; we become its cause; we become the epicenter of the brutality. And Kojima is aware of this, and concerned with this (Metal Gear, like all violent art, is a paradox of sorts). And his answer is to clearly and explicitly break the fourth wall down so that we are forced recognize that we hold the controller in our hands, that a cord connects us to the game, that we and the game are one and the same. He does not permit the comfortable remove that the fourth wall so often provides. We cannot divorce ourselves from the violence.

In Snake Eater, Kojima brilliantly demonstrates this concern by actually implementing a system of "punishment." Throughout the course of the game, the number of individuals you kill is tallied. When Snake confronts The Sorrow, all the souls of the dead rise to haunt him. The number of ghosts featured during this boss fight is proportional to the number of enemies you have killed. The more you’ve killed, the more ghosts you encounter, and therefore the more arduous the experience (the game even goes so far as to note the way in which you dispatched certain enemies, and these methods are reflected in the ghosts appearances). It’s a simple but extremely profound, even disturbing and sobering, experience.

Kojima also recontextualizes the pulling of the "trigger button" late in the game, when we are forced to kill a character we may not want to. At first, it seems as though the shot might be fired within a cinematic, however, as Snake prepares to take the shot, the letterbox black bars (which signal all the cinematics) slide off the top and the bottom of the screen, and we realize Kojima is going to make us pull the trigger. It’s something we’ve been doing the whole game, but here he completely redefines the experience. And we’re forced to reconcile our earlier, thoughtless gun-slinging.

What’s especially notable about these "meta" touches that I’ve discussed is that they would all be impossible to adequately recreate in any other medium. Kojima is sometimes criticized for being too cinematic and for more directing movies than games (he does rely heavily on his cinematics to develop many of his ideas and themes), but Kojima is most certainly one of the game designers most aware of what it is, exactly, that makes a game a game, and these self-reflexive devices demonstrate that.

(A note: I have approached this post from what seems to be an "auteurist" perspective. I do believe that there are enough similarities between the Metal Gear games to posit that they are the result of one primary artist [which does not mean solitary], but I do not wish to gloss over the fact that games are, indeed, a highly collaborative art. I suspect the auteurist debate will seep over into video games, and will always be hotly debated, as it still is with film. Oh, look at that…so much for not comparing video games to anything.)