Early this August, I attended the 2014 DiGRA conference near Salt Lake City, Utah. It was my first time attending a DiGRA event (I watched the 2013 Atlanta conference deadline pass by with a sigh). A more personal account of my experience might follow in another post, but this one is about a critical response to DiGRA 2014 and I hope to see more of the conversation by other participants.
The games criticism power duo of Zoya Street of Memory Insufficient and Andrew Grant Wilson of Silverstring Media have been publishing a series of insightful letters in response to the conference on the Silverstring Media blog and while I can't provide the same level of critical eloquence, it's a good reminder that we should respond to our conference experiences and, when needed (and it's pretty much always needed) offer critiques and, when possible, solutions.
I was absolutely thrilled to be accepted to the conference. Six days in Utah meant meeting new colleagues and hearing great ideas. To this day, I remain very happy that I applied. But there are other aspects of my experience beyond my nerdy joy that deserve explanation. I don't blame the organizers and volunteers for some of the problems this year. These folks made huge commitments of their time and energy and did a great job. But I do think we need to speak out about concerns of cost, accessibility, diversity and other areas in which we can improve.
After being accepted, my DiGRA experience began with massive sticker shock, delivered via my credit card, in continuing and frightening instalments. In my situation, the combination of DiGRA membership, early conference registration, air fare, hotel fees and food costs are probably somewhere slightly above $2000, and I write this as someone who largely subsisted on the food offered during breaks and a substantial collection of energy bars, fruit bars, and other foods in bar form, purchased in bulk in Canada. Over six days, I spent money at the in-house restaurants twice, motivated by the really excellent company. And despite leaving my room's garbage cans filled with enough wrappers that I worry the cleaning staff will think I was nesting in them, I spent that minimum $2000, only $300 of which I might be able to get back from my department. In a strange note, I'm actually one of the very lucky ones this time - I won a copy of Unity Pro I might be able to sell to cover the rest of the cost and maybe more. But not everyone is so lucky.
The choice to situate DiGRA at the Snowbird Resort is an understandable one. The location offers conference services and simply staggering views of the surrounding mountains. An included ski-lift ticket took me up the mountain and for a moment I genuinely forget how much money I had spent. But using a resort location drives up prices and raises the obstacles for persons who want to participate, to share their work and energy. It immediately makes it harder for the voices we need the most to join in the conversation. We have an ethical and professional responsibility to mitigate the costs of attending DiGRA in the future.
And accessibility more broadly is an important issue. The Snowbird resort itself had some significant physical accessibility issues and may actually have been designed by M.C. Escher. Anyone with difficulty handling stairs and barriers was immediately, if unintentionally, sent a message that their needs were not a priority. A space being technically navigable does not mean it is truly accessible. We have to fight for welcoming spaces at conferences and similar events. Cost and physical barriers are major factors in whether our events are welcoming, or even accessible period.
Diversity and a plurality of voices and perspectives are key to the success of conferences more generally. But they're also essential for the integrity and ethical responsibility conferences should strive for. That DiGRA is an academic conference in the first place raises barriers for potential participants, that ignore the worth of their work. And we should keep that in mind when we create the conditions of our next conference. And every conference.
At the DiGRA Fishbowl on Diversity in Game Studies, it was noted correctly that 'we can't accept submissions we don't get' but what that leaves out is that we have a responsibility to create the conditions to encourage and enable those missing submissions - from people of colour, from trans and genderqueer people, from women, from activists, from people living and working in poverty. DiGRA needs to solicit and listen to advice and criticism from the people under-represented at its events and recognize that we are responsible for the submissions we don't get.
Another important comment was made by Dr. Gillian Smith during the Diversity Fishbowl, namely that people who point out problems are not the only ones responsible for organizing efforts to deal with them. The people likeliest to notice problems - missing voices, for example, or instances of sexism or racism in an organization - don't always possess the resources that the ones least likely to notice problems do have. So, if we at DiGRA actually value the input of the people pointing out problems, we need to offer help to address that input. Time, effort, money, coverage, encouragement - the people to whom these resources are readily available have an ethical responsibility to share them. Sympathy is not enough. We need resources and help.
DiGRA President Dr. Mia Consalvo said something that resonated with me, that "We are DiGRA," that the people in the room, at the conference are part of the organization with the resources and responsibilities that entails. I am very happy to be a part of DiGRA and I want change. I want to know who else wants change. It's important to talk solutions, but it's also important to share concerns, to express anger, fear, and hope. The more we meaningfully converse with each other, the better.
So here is a starting set of principles I think DiGRA should adopt. (It's only a start and I encourage interested folks to critique it.)
1) A commitment to lowering the monetary barriers to involvement in DiGRA and its events;
2) A commitment to radical inclusivity (similar to the one discussed at the 2014 Canadian Game Studies Association Conference); this includes:
a) genuine physical accessibility at conference venues
b) creating the conditions to welcome submissions from under-represented contributors
c) exploring other areas of improvement in dialogue with members and non-members of DiGRA
3) A commitment to ensuring the acknowledgement by members of DiGRA with access to privilege and power of their ethical responsibility to help with the problems affect fellow participants in games studies and criticism
And I formally suggest that we try out the idea of a Game Studies and Criticism Camping Trip series, as suggested by Zoya Street here.
A video-gaming blog and the online home of Meghan Blythe Adams
Saturday, 16 August 2014
Thursday, 24 July 2014
Don't Wait, Get Help Now: A Year in Review
Rather than posting a picture of my weaponized adorableness as a child for Throwback Thursday, I thought in light of a recent editorial I got to do for First Person Scholar, it might be useful to take stock of the last year. It's been roughly a year since I finished my dissertation prospectus, fell entirely off the academic (and blogging) wagon, and eventually clawed my way back to productivity. In part, this post is a celebration of the personal and professional difference a year made for me.
Continuing to deal with anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder made this year tough and while I made really important strides, it necessitated a break from my professional and volunteer work this summer. Sadly, the 'official' break came after several months of stalled productivity, but even admitting I needed time off helped enough that said hiatus was remarkably shorter than I expected. My mental health might be the best it has ever been and while there's still progress to make, I am genuinely optimistic about the trajectory of my life for the first time in a long time. I may not be able to leave my house every day yet, but the yet is here heavily emphasized.
My professional life this year feels remarkably shaped by my involvement in First Person Scholar. Though I also backed off slightly from that area of my work for a short period, it's one of the parts of my professional life that's always engaging and energizing. I have to thank the editorial board and other attached folks there from the depths of my pixellated heart container for being amazing, inspiring and understanding.
Since joining the staff in August 2013, I've been involved in the behind the scenes editorial work of FPS and I've put out short publications starting with a commentary on interpellation in Journey in September, one on charmed circles of sexuality in Mass Effect in November, an essay on spectacular mortality in January, an interview with Christine Love in May, a two-part interview with Merritt Kopas in June and most recently the editorial in July that is in some ways the much more professional version of this blog post.
For many reasons, contributing to FPS was easy because it was part of a team effort, frequently operating on a quick turnaround, and yielded positive responses (and Tweets). And sometimes it was the only thing I felt I could get done. Attending to other projects was harder because it was often done solo with an eye on the long-term and rather hounded by my own negativity. But I also had the pleasure of presenting as part of a panel on death in video games at the May 2014 Canadian Games Studies Association Conference. I also successfully applied to the 2014 DiGRA Conference and I am really excited to go this August. (I ordered business cards! Ask me for one if you need a small rectangular thing to write on!) I've made some really exciting connections with other scholars and these connections fundamentally changed how I view my working process.
And if all goes well, in a week I'll be handing in a draft of my first chapter of my dissertation to my supervisor. Basically, this one chapter took a year to produce and I am hoping like hell that the others can be produced in much shorter order because I'm entering my fourth year in my PhD program and I am dead-set on completing it.
In some ways, the stops and starts of my productivity this year are an endorsement of actively taking time (and time off, if necessary) to deal with health problems while in graduate school, rather than floundering. I wasted some of my time and my supervisor's time this year. If I had faced my need for comprehensive treatment earlier, I may have saved a lot of effort and distress. In light of that, I strongly recommend that anyone facing mounting health or personal problems while trying to finish graduate work do their best (within the financial and chronological limits they have to deal with, which can be substantial) to get help. It might feel embarassing or like a show of weakness or just straight-up impossible to take time or time off to seek help, but I can't recommend it enough.
Also, don't blog too much when you have a chapter due in a week.
Continuing to deal with anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder made this year tough and while I made really important strides, it necessitated a break from my professional and volunteer work this summer. Sadly, the 'official' break came after several months of stalled productivity, but even admitting I needed time off helped enough that said hiatus was remarkably shorter than I expected. My mental health might be the best it has ever been and while there's still progress to make, I am genuinely optimistic about the trajectory of my life for the first time in a long time. I may not be able to leave my house every day yet, but the yet is here heavily emphasized.
My professional life this year feels remarkably shaped by my involvement in First Person Scholar. Though I also backed off slightly from that area of my work for a short period, it's one of the parts of my professional life that's always engaging and energizing. I have to thank the editorial board and other attached folks there from the depths of my pixellated heart container for being amazing, inspiring and understanding.
Since joining the staff in August 2013, I've been involved in the behind the scenes editorial work of FPS and I've put out short publications starting with a commentary on interpellation in Journey in September, one on charmed circles of sexuality in Mass Effect in November, an essay on spectacular mortality in January, an interview with Christine Love in May, a two-part interview with Merritt Kopas in June and most recently the editorial in July that is in some ways the much more professional version of this blog post.
For many reasons, contributing to FPS was easy because it was part of a team effort, frequently operating on a quick turnaround, and yielded positive responses (and Tweets). And sometimes it was the only thing I felt I could get done. Attending to other projects was harder because it was often done solo with an eye on the long-term and rather hounded by my own negativity. But I also had the pleasure of presenting as part of a panel on death in video games at the May 2014 Canadian Games Studies Association Conference. I also successfully applied to the 2014 DiGRA Conference and I am really excited to go this August. (I ordered business cards! Ask me for one if you need a small rectangular thing to write on!) I've made some really exciting connections with other scholars and these connections fundamentally changed how I view my working process.
And if all goes well, in a week I'll be handing in a draft of my first chapter of my dissertation to my supervisor. Basically, this one chapter took a year to produce and I am hoping like hell that the others can be produced in much shorter order because I'm entering my fourth year in my PhD program and I am dead-set on completing it.
In some ways, the stops and starts of my productivity this year are an endorsement of actively taking time (and time off, if necessary) to deal with health problems while in graduate school, rather than floundering. I wasted some of my time and my supervisor's time this year. If I had faced my need for comprehensive treatment earlier, I may have saved a lot of effort and distress. In light of that, I strongly recommend that anyone facing mounting health or personal problems while trying to finish graduate work do their best (within the financial and chronological limits they have to deal with, which can be substantial) to get help. It might feel embarassing or like a show of weakness or just straight-up impossible to take time or time off to seek help, but I can't recommend it enough.
Also, don't blog too much when you have a chapter due in a week.
Wednesday, 20 November 2013
A Surfeit of Skyrim
Recently in our household, we had been revisiting Skyrim, which we do periodically. Because we're not in a position to afford the most recent consoles right now (which is a post in itself), my brother and I have been going back to games we haven't touched in a while. As I write this, actually, the age of Skyrim has passed and Matt's been replaying Dead Space while I've been playing the 360 version of Tales of Vesperia. These returns to and unceremonious abandonments of Skyrim happen with some frequency and if you ask us why, we'd frankly have some trouble explaining.
Personally, I don't even enjoy Skyrim that much. I don't get a lot out of its writing and I tend to ignore the main quest, let alone the myriad side stuff. If I'm in Tamriel, chances are that I'm picking alchemical ingredients and killing dragons. That's really my jam in Skyrim. I have a frankly excessive amount of blue mountain flowers and a bug that means every time I return to my Hearthfire expansion home, I'm greeted by the corpse of a dragon I killed ages ago and accidentally fast-traveled with in tow. I like to imagine my in-game child uses it as a playground climber.
So why do I play, when even by my own admission, I'm not particularly doing much?
For me, playing Skyrim is a kind of a reflex action, when I don't feel like researching and I feel like playing something I don't particularly have to pay attention to. Play itself has a value, but it feels wasteful to have all that programmed possibility in a game and all I really want to do with it is wander and kill anything that looks at me funny. For me, playing Skyrim is a lot about virtual body memory and relying on that to keep my character moving. It's almost meditative - I have danced this dance before, I know the steps.
So, when I return to Skyrim, I find I have the same problem I did the very first time I picked up the game. Quests pile up, both the major and the grocery list of to-dos in my miscellaneous file. There's absolutely tons to do, but none of it feels particularly pressing or even important. Contrast this to Dark Souls, another game that evokes the use of virtual body memory, particularly on re-runs through areas where knowing the steps keeps your character alive. In the early levels of the game, it doesn't list your tasks in stark relief, but the game feels desperate and even your wandering feels like part of a struggle. There's an obvious difference between the two games in terms of difficulty and yet that isn't the only reason why I find that playing Dark Souls feels essential (if frequently unpleasant and frustrating) and Skyrim feels bloated.
Perhaps there's such a thing as too much content and I say this as an RPG fanatic. I love sinking hours into games. But I find myself irked by having too much content with too little sense of any of it mattering. If I'm not just playing for the sake of playing, I want a sense that my efforts have import. I don't find that in Skyrim. I just feel glutted with options I'm not invested in, like someone getting to the end of their Halloween hoard and eyeing the crappy caramels because the mini Kit Kats are long gone, if indeed they were ever there.
Personally, I don't even enjoy Skyrim that much. I don't get a lot out of its writing and I tend to ignore the main quest, let alone the myriad side stuff. If I'm in Tamriel, chances are that I'm picking alchemical ingredients and killing dragons. That's really my jam in Skyrim. I have a frankly excessive amount of blue mountain flowers and a bug that means every time I return to my Hearthfire expansion home, I'm greeted by the corpse of a dragon I killed ages ago and accidentally fast-traveled with in tow. I like to imagine my in-game child uses it as a playground climber.
So why do I play, when even by my own admission, I'm not particularly doing much?
For me, playing Skyrim is a kind of a reflex action, when I don't feel like researching and I feel like playing something I don't particularly have to pay attention to. Play itself has a value, but it feels wasteful to have all that programmed possibility in a game and all I really want to do with it is wander and kill anything that looks at me funny. For me, playing Skyrim is a lot about virtual body memory and relying on that to keep my character moving. It's almost meditative - I have danced this dance before, I know the steps.
So, when I return to Skyrim, I find I have the same problem I did the very first time I picked up the game. Quests pile up, both the major and the grocery list of to-dos in my miscellaneous file. There's absolutely tons to do, but none of it feels particularly pressing or even important. Contrast this to Dark Souls, another game that evokes the use of virtual body memory, particularly on re-runs through areas where knowing the steps keeps your character alive. In the early levels of the game, it doesn't list your tasks in stark relief, but the game feels desperate and even your wandering feels like part of a struggle. There's an obvious difference between the two games in terms of difficulty and yet that isn't the only reason why I find that playing Dark Souls feels essential (if frequently unpleasant and frustrating) and Skyrim feels bloated.
Perhaps there's such a thing as too much content and I say this as an RPG fanatic. I love sinking hours into games. But I find myself irked by having too much content with too little sense of any of it mattering. If I'm not just playing for the sake of playing, I want a sense that my efforts have import. I don't find that in Skyrim. I just feel glutted with options I'm not invested in, like someone getting to the end of their Halloween hoard and eyeing the crappy caramels because the mini Kit Kats are long gone, if indeed they were ever there.
Wednesday, 25 September 2013
Scholars Have Joined Your Party!: Why Academics Should Join Project Play
Last Monday, I wrote about my personal experience of London, Ontario's Project Play with the promise of writing a critical consideration of the event as a follow-up. My key point is this: events like Project Play are a great opportunity for games studies scholars to connect with the playing community. Exhibitors at Project Play included vendors, local game creators, community organizations and representatives from Fanshawe. Notably and lamentably absent were representatives from local Western University, game studies associations like DiGRA and CGSA, and middle-state publishers in the field like First-Person Scholar. I'll address each in turn.
Because Project Play brings together disparate elements of the playing community, the absence of representation from the local university was disappointing. PP is a great opportunity for gaming-minded departments like Computer Science and the Faculty of Information and Media Studies as well as organizations like the Digital Recreation, Entertainment, Art and Media (DREAM) Group operating out of the university to make community connections. It's important for any university to make local connections, but given that gaming scholars are so often also players and creators, gaming studies needs to be particularly welcoming to the community members who also often play multiple roles in the production, release, use and critique of games. Finally, showing an openness to gaming as a field of interest highlights Western University as potentially welcoming to PP attendees - it's just good marketing. I hope that next year representatives from Western and particularly its game studies-friendly departments and research groups, like those from Fanshawe, step up to support and attend PP in an official capacity.
Independent games studies organizations like DiGRA and CGSA should also consider getting a table at PP and events like it. While these organizations continue to grow, they still need grassroots connections in order to thrive. As said previously, it's often the case that gaming enthusiasts don't just play - they often create and critique as well. Game studies organizations should actively make connections with community events like PP in order to not only raise their own profile among attendees, but also to scout for potential presenters at our own events, particularly for academic attendees not yet applying their professional talents to their personal interest in gaming. The presence of game studies organizations at events like these (particularly in a university town like London) would show that game studies is increasingly a viable research area that can intersect with a wide range of fields.Making connections at events like PP increases the pool of DiGRa's and CGSA's potential attendees and contributors.
Finally, another category of game studies group that should attend events like PP is that of game studies publishers like First Person Scholar (Note: I should dislose that I'm a member of the editing team of FPS and that I'm emailing them about this forthwith). Websites, particularly those that occupy a place between academic blogging and academic journals shoulod use events like PP to court both readers and contributors. While sites like FPS publish the work of game studies scholars specifically, our readership can and should extend beyond the ranks of graduate students and faculty. Connecting with play enthusiasts would raise the profile of middle-state publishers in game studies as well as make connections with academics in other fields not currently connecting their professional work to the games they love.
If I had my way, this year, PP and other events like it would hear requests for tables from university departments and research groups, national and international game studies associations and publishers in the field. The presence of enthusiastic scholars at PP would forge key connections between the academy and the play communiy as part of an event raising funds to help children access play - that's a lot of awesome in one place. As PP demonstrates, everyone deserves a chance to play and academics should be getting in on the fun - for their own good as well as others'.
Because Project Play brings together disparate elements of the playing community, the absence of representation from the local university was disappointing. PP is a great opportunity for gaming-minded departments like Computer Science and the Faculty of Information and Media Studies as well as organizations like the Digital Recreation, Entertainment, Art and Media (DREAM) Group operating out of the university to make community connections. It's important for any university to make local connections, but given that gaming scholars are so often also players and creators, gaming studies needs to be particularly welcoming to the community members who also often play multiple roles in the production, release, use and critique of games. Finally, showing an openness to gaming as a field of interest highlights Western University as potentially welcoming to PP attendees - it's just good marketing. I hope that next year representatives from Western and particularly its game studies-friendly departments and research groups, like those from Fanshawe, step up to support and attend PP in an official capacity.
Independent games studies organizations like DiGRA and CGSA should also consider getting a table at PP and events like it. While these organizations continue to grow, they still need grassroots connections in order to thrive. As said previously, it's often the case that gaming enthusiasts don't just play - they often create and critique as well. Game studies organizations should actively make connections with community events like PP in order to not only raise their own profile among attendees, but also to scout for potential presenters at our own events, particularly for academic attendees not yet applying their professional talents to their personal interest in gaming. The presence of game studies organizations at events like these (particularly in a university town like London) would show that game studies is increasingly a viable research area that can intersect with a wide range of fields.Making connections at events like PP increases the pool of DiGRa's and CGSA's potential attendees and contributors.
Finally, another category of game studies group that should attend events like PP is that of game studies publishers like First Person Scholar (Note: I should dislose that I'm a member of the editing team of FPS and that I'm emailing them about this forthwith). Websites, particularly those that occupy a place between academic blogging and academic journals shoulod use events like PP to court both readers and contributors. While sites like FPS publish the work of game studies scholars specifically, our readership can and should extend beyond the ranks of graduate students and faculty. Connecting with play enthusiasts would raise the profile of middle-state publishers in game studies as well as make connections with academics in other fields not currently connecting their professional work to the games they love.
If I had my way, this year, PP and other events like it would hear requests for tables from university departments and research groups, national and international game studies associations and publishers in the field. The presence of enthusiastic scholars at PP would forge key connections between the academy and the play communiy as part of an event raising funds to help children access play - that's a lot of awesome in one place. As PP demonstrates, everyone deserves a chance to play and academics should be getting in on the fun - for their own good as well as others'.
Monday, 23 September 2013
Project Funway: London, Ontario's Project Play
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| Copyright Project Play |
This is the first of two posts on the second annual edition of Project Play, billed as "southwestern Ontario's biggest hands-on play event." While this post will be more about my personal experience at the event, the follow-up will be a more critical engagement with the event and its potential in general.
I've been eagerly waiting for Project Play since I missed out on it last year. The event aims to combine geek-friendly vendors and organizations and play opportunities ranging from cosplay contests to tabletop demos, to board games, video games and a small sea of MegaBloks. Part of the event's appeal is that on top of being so play-focused, it also raises money to donate games to organizations that help children and families. Last year, they raised over $5000 for gaming bundles donated to local organizations Merrymount Family Support Crisis Centre, Women's Community House and Women's Rural Resource Centre Strathroy and Area. Both as a play enthusiast and a game studies nerd, I was committed to making it this year, come hell or Titans.
Overall, I had a wonderful experience at this year's Project Play. Volunteers and exhibitors were friendly and the range of activities was both impressive and heart-warming to watch. I also came home with a sweet bag full of loot, mostly posters, and a mitt-ful of cards from geek-oriented vendors. The urge to splurge was a big part of my attendance - my brother and I went in looking mostly to observe and shop for decorations for our apartment. Both being a bit shy, we were interested in but a bit circumspect of the group play opportunities, so I can't speak to the experience of the event by folks more inclined to jump in without being invited / coaxed.
While I came home full of geek love and I thank the organizers and volunteers for putting on a great event, I do have three suggestions for next year. These suggestions mostly run on volunteers and organization and I fully intend to volunteer next year. Contact Project Play to do so yourself.
Previous to the event, announcements of cosplay contests and King of Tokyo tournaments were exciting, but the lack of a publicly posted schedule was frustrating. While I recognize the difficulty of organizing events like this, having a schedule to reference would help next year's attendees plan their day at the event.While posting prior to the event would be ideal, even a day-of schedule posted at the welcoming tables would be very helpful.
Another resource for attendees would be additional support navigating the campus. While the map on the event's web site was clear, the signage on the campus led us to park far from the right building. My ankle is still healing from being sprained, so the walk to and the wrong turn-induced journey through the wastes of Fanshawe's parking lots from the event led to a slight re-injury I'm nursing today. Next year, the event could use volunteers at the main entry to campus, directing attendees to the right parking lot so anyone with energy or mobility issues didn't re-enact the Journey to
A final suggestion for next year's event would be that play events consistently have signage or volunteers stationed there to inform and, let's be frank, coax attendees as needed. I suspect that no few of the attendees are as socially gun-shy as myself and having a friendly face to say, "Hey, this is the board game area. Are you looking to try a game or for more players to join one?" would make a big difference. Had there been more attendee outreach, I think Matt and I would have tried a turn at D&D or a board game, but instead, we mostly observed.
These observations were, though, possibly the best part of Project Play for Matt and me. We saw attendees and exhibitors in costume - many Finn hats were in evidence - we saw fruitful, relaxed interaction between people coming together to play. The event was colourful and welcoming and both of us felt very much among our geeky kind. Simply attending was really the biggest treat of the day and we both look forward to next year.
If you think you'd like to join in next year, contact Project Play by their website, Facebook profile, or Twitter. Tell them how much you love play (and large, clear maps).
Sunday, 1 September 2013
Lego Heads and Gamer Tales: CGSA 2013
My envy of those attending this year's DiGRA has me thinking back on my first attendance of the Canadian Game Studies Association's conference at the 2013 Congress of the Humanities in Victoria, B.C. CGSA was my first game studies conference and it remains a high point in my time as a game studies nerd.
Because I operate out of an English department, my area of interest sometimes leaves me feeling like a cuckoo in a nest of some other, much less annoying bird. After presenting on Mass Effect at ACCUTE in 2012, even though it was an excellent conference and I was treated very well, I was hungry for a conference in my field.
Going into the CGSA, I was nervous. Presenting on games at an English conference or being the only presenter on games at a multimedia conference is in some ways an easy job. You may feel like the responsibility of representing game studies as a vibrant and, above all, legitimate field rests solely on the shoulders of some chump who happens to be you, but you're also relatively unlikely to get called out by someone who knows game studies better than you do.
A conference in your field, however, has a whole different set of anxieties, embodied by the large number of brilliant peers you suddenly have. I imagine that every specialized conference has this effect to a certain extent, but when game studies is still being debated in some universities, when the legitimacy of the field itself is still part of the argument that has to be made in dissertation proposals, game studies conferences will continue to be more of a haven (or cabal) than ones on Shakespearean Studies, for example. The presenter swag bag in the form of a Lego figurine whose parts you could swap with other attendees certainly helped this feeling.
Blame the trading of Lego heads or the open bar after the AGM if you must, but for me, attending CGSA was like coming home. Being presented with the sheer mass of brain-power present was like being punched in the neck. But gobsmacked or not, being among scholars who assumed the importance of game studies as a base for other thinking was pretty heady stuff.
They key things I took away from this year's CGSA were three: the dual poles of Toronto and Montreal, the many hats of the presenters, and correspondingly, the exciting range of presentations. While we had scholars from all over, there were substantial camps working in Toronto and Montreal. I'm hoping to make connections in both places, likely thanks to my close friendship with the Greyhound company. I also want to know about game communities in other cities: what's going on in Edmonton and Waterloo?
Presenters ranged from game designers to game studies professors and starry-eyed graduate students in a wide range of fields. Even beyond the interdisciplinarity that typifies game studies, part of what's so attractive about the field is that creators, players and critics so often wear all three hats. It means that conversations aren't limited to the academic perspective and increasingly, it encourages scholastically-inclined game nerds like myself to learn how to create as well as critique (note: my efforts have not yet proved fruitful).
Part of those conversations include presentations like the ones at CGSA this year, which ranged from deeply personal discussions of the relationship between gaming and anxiety (@Forestghost_), MMOs in Russia (Cat Goodfellow, who has the best name in game studies), and the problems presented by gamification (Mark Chen). On a purely selfish level, hearing about such different topics was really invigorating for my own research.
And that, I think, is the most important part of conferences like CGSA. Yes, they make important connections, they encourage cross-pollination and they keep people informed. But they send participants home excited and it's passion and the grim commitment that follows that gets the work done.
After coming home from the CGSA, I finished my dissertation proposal. Coincidence? Mostly not.
Because I operate out of an English department, my area of interest sometimes leaves me feeling like a cuckoo in a nest of some other, much less annoying bird. After presenting on Mass Effect at ACCUTE in 2012, even though it was an excellent conference and I was treated very well, I was hungry for a conference in my field.
Going into the CGSA, I was nervous. Presenting on games at an English conference or being the only presenter on games at a multimedia conference is in some ways an easy job. You may feel like the responsibility of representing game studies as a vibrant and, above all, legitimate field rests solely on the shoulders of some chump who happens to be you, but you're also relatively unlikely to get called out by someone who knows game studies better than you do.
A conference in your field, however, has a whole different set of anxieties, embodied by the large number of brilliant peers you suddenly have. I imagine that every specialized conference has this effect to a certain extent, but when game studies is still being debated in some universities, when the legitimacy of the field itself is still part of the argument that has to be made in dissertation proposals, game studies conferences will continue to be more of a haven (or cabal) than ones on Shakespearean Studies, for example. The presenter swag bag in the form of a Lego figurine whose parts you could swap with other attendees certainly helped this feeling.
Blame the trading of Lego heads or the open bar after the AGM if you must, but for me, attending CGSA was like coming home. Being presented with the sheer mass of brain-power present was like being punched in the neck. But gobsmacked or not, being among scholars who assumed the importance of game studies as a base for other thinking was pretty heady stuff.
They key things I took away from this year's CGSA were three: the dual poles of Toronto and Montreal, the many hats of the presenters, and correspondingly, the exciting range of presentations. While we had scholars from all over, there were substantial camps working in Toronto and Montreal. I'm hoping to make connections in both places, likely thanks to my close friendship with the Greyhound company. I also want to know about game communities in other cities: what's going on in Edmonton and Waterloo?
Presenters ranged from game designers to game studies professors and starry-eyed graduate students in a wide range of fields. Even beyond the interdisciplinarity that typifies game studies, part of what's so attractive about the field is that creators, players and critics so often wear all three hats. It means that conversations aren't limited to the academic perspective and increasingly, it encourages scholastically-inclined game nerds like myself to learn how to create as well as critique (note: my efforts have not yet proved fruitful).
Part of those conversations include presentations like the ones at CGSA this year, which ranged from deeply personal discussions of the relationship between gaming and anxiety (@Forestghost_), MMOs in Russia (Cat Goodfellow, who has the best name in game studies), and the problems presented by gamification (Mark Chen). On a purely selfish level, hearing about such different topics was really invigorating for my own research.
And that, I think, is the most important part of conferences like CGSA. Yes, they make important connections, they encourage cross-pollination and they keep people informed. But they send participants home excited and it's passion and the grim commitment that follows that gets the work done.
After coming home from the CGSA, I finished my dissertation proposal. Coincidence? Mostly not.
Friday, 30 August 2013
Cake and Lies: Christine Love's Hate Plus
Spoilers for Analogue: A Hate Story and Hate Plus below.
This past week, I played through Christine Love's Hate Plus, the sequel to 2012's Analogue: A Hate Story. Like its predecessor, Hate Plus is a visual novel with several potential outcomes that deals with issues of misogyny, love, and transhumanism. In both cases, I decided to take the bait and follow a romantic plot with the AI *Hyun-ae. Love deliberately makes this romantic element a troubling one - the player is the first friendly point of contact that the severely traumatized *Hyun-ae has had in hundreds of years and the relationship has potentially unhealthy notes.
And what, I ask, is unhealthier than cake? Well, radiation, for one thing that pops up in the first game. But the biggest danger in my initial (and so far, only) run-through of Hate Plus was my lack of chocolate chips in my real-life kitchen with which to make a cake for *Hyun-ae. Seriously.
If you're following the *Hyun-ae path in the game, she eventually requests a cake so you can celebrate the Lunar New Year Festival together. Used to making promises to the character (I was her dashing rescuer, after all), I glibly tapped the Yes button, even as she asked me to check the kitchen. To my shock, she pointed out that I hadn't taken enough time to check. Additional attempts to lie and cautious resets piled up, until the character directly addressed me - the player, not the player-character - and accused me of treating the game like a tacky erotic visual novel and asked me to consider the sad girl I could make happy just by making her cake.
Reader, I made the cake. Love wisely suggests a five minute (give or take fifteen) cake that can be made in the microwave (by "any otaku", as *Hyun-ae says) and satisfies both *Hyun-ae's sensibilities and timer. After making the cake and sharing it with the AI on my computer screen, I took a photo of my mug full of cake and emailed it to the developer to get a particular achievement for the game on Steam. Like you do. To my knowledge, this is the first time I have left my game to go do its bidding in my regular life.
Now that the last crumbs have long since been scraped from the mug, I'm interested in the strange sense of vulnerability I had when the game called me out. Often when gaming we're ensconced (if not entirely safely) in identities - Master Chief, Commander Shepard, Mario, etc - but Hate Plus called me out, clearly disregarding my in-game persona in order to get the attention of the person sitting at the computer.
Let's consider two ways of looking at how this strategy differs from standard game-play. One focuses on spatial incorporation. Analogue incorporated the keyboard as a playing tool directly when progressing through the game demanded use of the in-game computer terminal. This extra-game typing of in-game terminal commands gave a one-to-one representation of player action that puts the Kinect to shame. In contrast, Hate Plus bypasses the computer as sole means of interface in favour of expanding the space of the game to include a place in which real cakes get made. Alternately, we can read this as less of a touch of the alternate-reality-game in which technology augments real-world space and more of a modification of the scope of player behaviour - an expansion of player ability instead of game-space.
Both of these readings have failings, but what's clear is that *Hyun-ae's cake is one of the ways that Love's game aims to destabilize comfortable ideas held and boundaries relied on by the player - even ones leaned on by its previous instalment. Just as Hate Plus further complicates the history of the misogyny presented in the first game through the revelations of the second, it also disrupts the player identity and the scope of play explicitly brought along from Analogue.
What does this tell us? Christine Love remains a game designer to watch and cake is only as far away as your microwave, otaku scum.
This past week, I played through Christine Love's Hate Plus, the sequel to 2012's Analogue: A Hate Story. Like its predecessor, Hate Plus is a visual novel with several potential outcomes that deals with issues of misogyny, love, and transhumanism. In both cases, I decided to take the bait and follow a romantic plot with the AI *Hyun-ae. Love deliberately makes this romantic element a troubling one - the player is the first friendly point of contact that the severely traumatized *Hyun-ae has had in hundreds of years and the relationship has potentially unhealthy notes.
And what, I ask, is unhealthier than cake? Well, radiation, for one thing that pops up in the first game. But the biggest danger in my initial (and so far, only) run-through of Hate Plus was my lack of chocolate chips in my real-life kitchen with which to make a cake for *Hyun-ae. Seriously.
If you're following the *Hyun-ae path in the game, she eventually requests a cake so you can celebrate the Lunar New Year Festival together. Used to making promises to the character (I was her dashing rescuer, after all), I glibly tapped the Yes button, even as she asked me to check the kitchen. To my shock, she pointed out that I hadn't taken enough time to check. Additional attempts to lie and cautious resets piled up, until the character directly addressed me - the player, not the player-character - and accused me of treating the game like a tacky erotic visual novel and asked me to consider the sad girl I could make happy just by making her cake.
Reader, I made the cake. Love wisely suggests a five minute (give or take fifteen) cake that can be made in the microwave (by "any otaku", as *Hyun-ae says) and satisfies both *Hyun-ae's sensibilities and timer. After making the cake and sharing it with the AI on my computer screen, I took a photo of my mug full of cake and emailed it to the developer to get a particular achievement for the game on Steam. Like you do. To my knowledge, this is the first time I have left my game to go do its bidding in my regular life.
Now that the last crumbs have long since been scraped from the mug, I'm interested in the strange sense of vulnerability I had when the game called me out. Often when gaming we're ensconced (if not entirely safely) in identities - Master Chief, Commander Shepard, Mario, etc - but Hate Plus called me out, clearly disregarding my in-game persona in order to get the attention of the person sitting at the computer.
Let's consider two ways of looking at how this strategy differs from standard game-play. One focuses on spatial incorporation. Analogue incorporated the keyboard as a playing tool directly when progressing through the game demanded use of the in-game computer terminal. This extra-game typing of in-game terminal commands gave a one-to-one representation of player action that puts the Kinect to shame. In contrast, Hate Plus bypasses the computer as sole means of interface in favour of expanding the space of the game to include a place in which real cakes get made. Alternately, we can read this as less of a touch of the alternate-reality-game in which technology augments real-world space and more of a modification of the scope of player behaviour - an expansion of player ability instead of game-space.
Both of these readings have failings, but what's clear is that *Hyun-ae's cake is one of the ways that Love's game aims to destabilize comfortable ideas held and boundaries relied on by the player - even ones leaned on by its previous instalment. Just as Hate Plus further complicates the history of the misogyny presented in the first game through the revelations of the second, it also disrupts the player identity and the scope of play explicitly brought along from Analogue.
What does this tell us? Christine Love remains a game designer to watch and cake is only as far away as your microwave, otaku scum.
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