According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, failure is defined as the “omission of occurrence or performance,” particularly “a state of inability to perform a normal function.” The introduction of normativity, ironically, gives way to the idea of the abnormal—the rebellious, the defiant, the “other.”
In Queer Gaming: Gaming, Hacking, and Going Turbo, Jack Halberstam challenges readers to think about queerness not as a state of being, but as a function or practice. He asserts that in a world designed for normativity, queer subjects must “hack straight narratives and insert their own algorithms for time, space, life, and desire.” The assertion of the player as a force against restrictive mechanics lends the game a human imprint. At the most basic level, Braid, for instance, enables players to manipulate time to advance through a terrain. The discovery of this ability presents a moment of leveling between the human and formalist structures in the game, in which the player—initially prey to the ever-forward movement of time—may bend time to progress the narrative. This copresence of restrictive and enabling elements births the ideal of normativity, and with that comes the promise of failure.
Queers in Love at the End of the World takes a different approach to time. Immediately, the game’s title puts forth the notion of finality. Working in conjunction with the 10-second countdown, I found myself torn between reading my choices and reaching an end before the clock—the small moment of self-affirmation amongst the inevitable. For a choice-based hypertext game, Queers in Love at the End of the World presents players with little choice; the ending is fixed, and the fleeting seconds of intimacy are wiped away.
Similar to Jonathan Blow, Anna Anthropy adds a new element to time, though more subtly. Pressing the back button not only allows players to revisit choices, but additionally adds timers, such that time acts in a manner more akin to a metric than a restraint.
The play experience evolves from a linear narrative to something more branched and exploratory. I went back to certain decisions; I read Anthropy’s story fully; I was kind to my partner; I was demanding with my partner. Through this completeness, though, I felt as though the game had lost its essence—what was I playing for? Did removing the possibility of failure reduce the game to a series of choices? Does failure make choices meaningful?
Returning to Braid, Jonathan Blow’s trailer provides some insight into these questions. The video begins with the question of “What if you could learn from mistakes but undo the consequences?” and ends with the question of “Then what would you be?” I believe the feeling of unsatisfaction stemmed not from the removal of failure, but a change in the framing of the game’s central question. Queers in Love at the End of the World initially asks, “If everything were to be wiped away, what would you want?” then follows with “Is that any different than what you want right now?” In my experience, failure is not a shortcoming of the game, but a method of restructuring the game’s narrative to complicate a question about our humanness.
[As a side note, a blog called 21st Century Digital Art states that “This is a very powerful game because it allows people to be put in the shoes of a queer person.” I do not identify as queer and cannot speak to the experience of being in the shoes of a queer person. However, I do not believe the creative work of one individual—regardless of its inspiration—should speak for an entire body of experiences, nor do I think that Anthropy intended for this game to spark empathy for the queer community. As stated in one of her other games, Dys4ia, “My experience isn’t anyone else’s and is not meant to be representative of every trans person.” Personally, I found meaning in the game’s exploration of desire and time, which indirectly relates to gender and sexuality.]
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