I found myself enjoying Tacoma way more than I thought I would, even after I'd played it a bit and figured out what the premise was. What made it really stick out for me is how utterly unafraid it is to lean hard into its intended message. Morally speaking, there’s no subtlety to the game’s narrative; it’s an anti-corporation, anti-reckless consumerism, anti-late capitalism screed if I’ve ever seen one. It is my humble opinion that today, in this year of our Lord 2019 (and 2018, for that matter), we kinda do need a game like Tacoma, one that pulls no punches in showing to its audience just how easily we can get fucked over by irresponsible people near the top of the food chain. And its systemic critique is embedded right into the gameplay itself.
The most obvious point here is the game’s use of its fictional AR technology. The player character, Amy Ferrier, is supplied with AR devices (property of the Venturis Corporation!) to properly interface with the ship, and consequently she is able to observe the crew of Tacoma’s last hours aboard the station through AR recordings. As AR figures, the recorded crew are “mere” featureless silhouettes, with no faces or clothing to distinguish them from each other. The only means of identification they have is provided by the AR system itself, which “tags” them with their name and profession. In other words, Venturis’s technology strips away all the humanity from the crewmembers, reduces it to its bare minimum elements and compresses it to the AR equivalent of a name tag, to be displayed at its will. Already we have, if not a particularly restrained rendition of corporate dehumanization, a very digestible one. The AR recordings are the main objects of attraction in the game—players always have their attention drawn to these lifeless silhouettes.
In that sense, the rest of the game consists of fighting back against that dehumanization, of showing that these are real people who lived real lives aboard Tacoma. Henry Jenkins writes that one effective compromise between game design and narrative storytelling is the formation of a dual narrative, “one relatively unstructured and controlled by the player as they explore […] the other pre-structured but embedded within the mise-en-scene awaiting discovery.” (9) Through such a model, the player has free range as to what they do or don’t discover about the game world, but ultimately all the information is present, available to find. Tacoma loads its mise-en-scene chock-full of meaning to interpret: personal crew effects are strewn around the station, AR recordings often provide access to personal documents and communication, and the environment often reflects the actions performed long ago by the AR recordings. There is an absurd amount of info to learn about the crew—in no particular order, we may learn of the engineer’s attempts to cope with the feeling she holds her wife back; the botanist’s dedication to activism and international reparation for his native country; the administrator’s desire for companionship; the medic’s staunch position in favor of corporate accountability. We see the imprints upon keypads as the AR figures unlock doors, the aftermath of a grievous discovery in the form of still-open classified messages.
Traces of humanity abound aboard Tacoma; and since most of this humanizing information is in direct conflict against corporate ownership and profiteering, the more the player learns the more evident the game’s stance becomes. In spite of the difficulties provoked by the AR interface, the player (unless they decide to while away the game’s progress bars doing absolutely nothing) can’t help but learn more about the crew of Tacoma. Tidbits about unionization and financial struggle are part and parcel of what makes these characters feel real—and once they feel real, doesn’t all the supplemental material feel real as well? In associating embedded worldbuilding with the gradual humanization of its characters, Tacoma relays its message loudly and poignantly.
Bibliography:
Jenkins, Henry. “Game Design as Narrative Architecture.” (2003).
I definitely agree the game takes a bold and daring stance on anti-corporation, I feel it falls short of humanizing the characters. Because most of the conversation are so surrounded to the message/thememaking of the game, it feels like the people are pawns to weave out a message, rather than real 3D people. In contrast to the skeletal holograms, the memories really flesh out the characters more. The humanity, though, slips through small things like their accents and idiosyncrasies more than the character's political stances. I kind of wish the game is longer and go into more useless information, if to only sculpt more interesting characters.
I like your analysis of how as our understanding of events on the ship expands so does our understandings of the characters. I also like your analysis of the anti-corporation messages in the game. I think my favorite is the idea of obsolescence day, this holiday for when they were no longer supposed to be working on this dangerous ship. This day that if it had happened would have avoided all of this potential tragedy. I think it is a clear as day message against the dangers of corporate power. This also reminds me of the weird loyalty based economy they live in, which again empowers corporations. Perhaps a grim future for us to look forward to.
An interesting claim to make. I definitely agree that there is a class between humanization and AR technology. Something interesting to point out as well, is that it seems that as each of the characters become more humanized, there seems to be more push back from the technology to hide that humanization. For example, toward the beginning of the game, when you glance over characters, only one of the information dialogues are corrupted. But, as you progress into the game and learn some of these characters have families, and outside interests, more dialogues seem to be corrupted in the game. Its as if the AR technology is resisting your progression the see these characters in a more humanistic light.