As Professor Jagoda warned, Problematic Attic is an extremely difficult game. It is unpleasant to play, it is unpleasant to look at, it is unpleasant to listen to, and indeed I would not have finished the game without the assistance of impending friend-of-the-class Ian Bryce Jones. And yet I was riveted by the agonizing ascents, descents, and side-shuffles of my tiny strange form through the ever-intensifying nightmare realms of Liz Ryerson’s game. I wanted to know what would happen next because advancing, even with the help of the walkthrough, felt like a sacrifice, like putting my little avatar’s life on the line. Though Problem Attic does not have a central mechanic as sleek and elegant and carefully developed as Braid’s time reversal, I would argue Problem Attic instead has a central demand. While Braid teaches the player to follow a certain puzzle-solving method, Problem Attic demands the player give up any method except blind hope.
To progress in Problem Attic, a player must throw the avatar into pits, fly off into endless abysses, leap off the edge of the screen, cling to their enemies, and trust the game to continue even when it is seemingly shaking itself apart. The aesthetics of the game, except for the avatar’s humanoid figure and a few notable instances of symbols and writing, are barely recognizable as platformer tropes, let alone objects that have anything in common with the real world. Almost nothing can be immediately understood or made sense of, crafted into meaning. The player is forced to proceed on the hope that something will happen if they touch this block (what makes it special?), or scale this height (headed where?), or leap off this ledge (plunging into what?), even though the result of their actions may be baffling, or, worse, painful and upsetting. Success comes not in strategy or cleverness, but in flinging the avatar into pain and danger because the idea of remaining in such an awful space is unbearable.
Problem Attic’s discomforting visuals and opaque operations make it difficult to relate to at first glance, repelling attempts to assign it the kind of beautifully architected meanings Braid welcomes. But this same inaccessibility and divorce from reality makes Problem Attic a rewarding experience, which allows for very personal player input in making sense of it. The abstracted environments, ambiguous experiences, and terrible uncertainty invite players to join their own pain, fear, and alienation with Liz Ryerson’s, brought together in the body she provides for the player, the avatar. In undertaking this journey through the medium of the avatar, the player collaborates with Ryerson in the experience, filling the contours of pain and anger drawn by Ryerson with their own memories and struggles. The avatar and its suffering form a container for the player’s meanings and Ryerson’s both to coexist simultaneously and inform the experience of playing Problem Attic. The player acts and reenacts this suffering over and over on each level, attempting to escape, hoping for solutions, driven forward by the awfulness of the experience, an awfulness both personal and universal, co-located in the avatar where player and creator are aligned. Problem Attic not only describes the process of pain and hope requisite in trauma recovery, but asks the player to join in it by performing it through the plain little figure of the avatar.
I also think this analysis is spot-on, and I think you point out an interesting distinction between the gameplay of Braid and Problem Attic when you talk about Problem Attic having a central demand. While playing the latter, I think everyone in class felt the same frustration with having to navigate such an uncomfortable, disorienting game universe. But it’s that discomfort stemming from the uncertainty of the game that makes it more than the annoying game it is superficially. A lot of people (if not everyone) at some point feel like they’re navigating through life uncertain to an extent, and the way Problem Attic portrays this uncertainty through its disjointed universe allows pretty much anyone to identify with the game.
I think you hit the nail on the head with your description of the contrast between Braid and Problem Attic in terms describing what the central element is. But what I enjoyed even more was this notion of a focal point within games from a mechanical or play perspective. This idea of a central mechanism or demand is a perspective I had never really considered in video games. I think there's a similar sentiment when considering the idea of a focal point in art but the idea of a focal point or centrality in video games is interesting. How do you go about defining what is the central element though? Should it be the story, the mechanism or the way…
Those are both really great points! Thanks for commenting!
I think having to witness the violence against your avatar from the third person perspective definitely intensifies its disturbing qualities. When I play as an avatar in a game, I always identify it as "my" body to some degree even when it has no resemblance or relation to me, and it is more painful for me to see that body attacked in a third person game than it is to, say, take damage in a first person game where maybe all I experience is a red flash on the screen or a weird sound effect. With the third person view you get the two-for-one deal of being disturbed by violence against…
I think your point is even more interesting when you consider that the platformer style of the game puts your avatar in the first person. Games that want you to relate to the character will often put you in the first person perspective. In the first person, either the lack of a known appearance or the ability to select your appearance allows you to easily adopt the perspective of the character.
Problem Attic takes an entirely different approach by putting the character you relate to in the third person. The avatar is both an Other, and a representation of yourself that you're looking straight at. The player is forced to repeatedly reenact the suffering of the avatar like you mention…
I completely agree with your analysis. The ever-changing mechanics of Problem Attic couple with the confusing and seemingly nonsensical layouts of the levels to create a totally unique gaming experience. I'm very curious how you would add the NPCs/enemies to your explanation as well. I struggled a lot with trying to understand what they symbolized. Even after the level with the gendered signs that seemed to inescapably categorize these enemies into genders, it felt as though something was missing in my interpretation. The confounding and challenging landscape of the missions is clearly noteworthy but the dynamic interaction of the NPCs reveals a depth to me.
I also felt a closeness with the central avatar, which made it all the more…