I remember playing the action-adventure game Uncharted 4: A Thief’s End (2016) about two years ago and reflecting on the role of narratives in video games. Gamers in my generation grew up on games that encouraged completionism—take Donkey Kong and Super Mario Bros, for instance. Narratives were often cut short by technological limitations or, as journalist Jason Schreier puts it, had the “subtlety of a sledgehammer.” Uncharted was different; it felt human. Apart from stunning graphics and smooth mechanics, it emphasized the storyline and allowed players to connect with the protagonist—a trait that I believed to be revolutionary among modern role-playing games.
That’s why I was surprised to find that Braid, an experimental art game with a bi-directional timeline, was published in 2008, almost a decade before I developed a fascination with the Uncharted series. Broadly, Braid uses a time-reversal mechanic to juggle different ideas surrounding ethics, time, and forgiveness.
And atomic bombs.
Braid is unique not only for the content of its narrative but also for how the storyline associates with the game’s rules and mechanics. The primary attribute of the game, the ability to reverse time, both reinforces the theme of forgiveness and pushes the intentionality of the players. One portal in World Three— aptly titled “Irreversible”—players must complete the level without pressing the rewind button. Other portals allow players to endlessly undo their past decisions, thus supporting the protagonist Tim’s urge to reverse the damages he inflicted on the Princess. The act of undoing actions, including death, lends players newfound agency while forcing them to contemplate each step.
Although I did not finish the game, the sense of incompleteness and prospect that I could dig deeper into the game fulfilled me. What was I seeking that I found in Braid? What was missing from completionist games that felt so satisfying?
In an interview with GameSpot, Jonathan Blow spoke on the state of independent games in the late 2000s. He stated that many indie games released in that decade operated on the “same level of seriousness”—or lack thereof. Audiosurf, World of Goo, and other casual games come to mind. Indie games became akin to toys as developers shifted their focus from mechanics to “fun.”
But what is fun, and for whom? Is it the simplicity of casual games? The narrative elements of Uncharted?
Blow makes a different argument altogether. Braid was not designed to be fun. It capitalizes on a player’s curiosity and challenges them in ways they would not expect from a video game. Completionist games feel lacking because developers obsess over the unquantifiable concept of fun. Video games intertwine interactivity with the plot of literature and cinematic aspects of film. The joy within Braid is born from discovering those relationships and appreciating interpretations.
Maybe Uncharted didn’t venture too far into uncharted territory after all.
Citations:
Schreier, Jason. Blood, Sweat, and Pixels: the Triumphant, Turbulent Stories behind How Video Games Are Made. New York: Harper, 2017.
Winegarner, Tyler. GameSpot. GameSpot, March 7, 2012. https://www.gamespot.com/videos/jonathan-blow-how-mainstream-devs-are-getting-it-w/2300-6365133/.
I appreciate the questions posed in this post. Games can be an invitation to satisfying sensations, captivating stories, and other traditional experience that we typically identify with "entertainment". But they can also invite a grueling exploration of emotions, an obsessive tug of war with curiosity, and relentless attack on convention. Casual or Completionist, narrative-driven or abstract, fun or not -- I think being sensitive to the myriad of possibilities the medium is capable of (as demonstrated by the questions you have posed in this blog post) amplifies the experience altogether.
An interesting take on completionism in gaming in general. As someone who views themselves more as a casual gamer, I find myself taken aback by people discussing their completionist tendencies, and I'm curious about where that all comes from? Why is there this impulse to complete something until it's completely done done? Getting all the puzzle pieces would seem secondary to completing a mainline narrative, yet why do we subject ourselves to the extra effort of "completing" a game all the way? I wonder if completionism is just a justification for total escapism from our own realities and submerging ourselves into a virtual world with a particular intention: to not come out until the job is done.