# Story and Recall in First-Person Shooters

Authors: Dan Pinchbeck
Journal: International Journal of Computer Games Technology
 (2008)

---

## Abstract

Story has traditionally been seen as something separate to gameplay—frequently
relegated to an afterthought or epiphenomenon. Nevertheless, in the FPS genre there has been
something of a renaissance in the notion of the story-driven title. Partially, this is due to advances in
technology enabling a greater capacity for distributed storytelling and a better integration of story and
gameplay. However, what has been underrecognised is the dynamic, epistemological, and
psychological impact of story and story elements upon player behaviour. It is argued here that there
is evidence that story may have a direct influence upon cognitive operations. Specifically, evidence is
presented that it appears to demonstrate that games with highly visible, detailed stories may assist
players in recalling and ordering their experiences. If story does, indeed, have a more direct influence,
then it is clearly a more powerful and immediate tool in game design than either simply reward system or
golden thread.


---

## Body

## 1. Introduction

In our recent paper [1], we discussed
a simple study designed to offer evidence of one of the ways in which
nonludically significant devices within an FPS game have a direct impact upon
how the experience of the game is recalled and reported. Subjects played one of
two games with very different levels of visibility and importance of story and
then undertook a semistructured interview based around four major aspects:
plot, character, avatar, and world. The research focus was whether subjects appeared
to utilise story as a framework for their recall.Narrative and games have a rather turbulent
historical relationship, particularly in academic circles, but it is not our
intention to add to volume of writing on this subject here. Thus, rather than entering
into a debate about the relative narrativity of games, we will concern
ourselves with the functional operation of story in FPS systems and, in
particular, how they
might relate to memory.Firstly, we will offer an alternate way of
conceptualising story information in games that coopts both Barthes’
atomisation of narrative [2] and Carr’s appropriation of the protonarrative
[3]. Secondly, we will briefly introduce the notion of narrative psychology and
the claims that there exist innate story-like structures in cognition that
would predispose subjects towards the favoring of story-like sequences, the
interpretation of sequences as stories, or better recall of sequences with
highly apparent story-like structures.


## 2. Story in Games as Protonarrative Network

Barthes argues for
four fundamental units that act as the building blocks of
all
narrative [2, pages 79–124].
These units are divided into functions, which relay action, and indices which
relate to abstract, atmospheric, or psychological notions. For
example, the
unit “He wrote” would be classed as a function as it conveys an irreducible
action, whereas “He was tense” falls into the category of indices. Both
categories may be further defined: functions according to their relative
importance and impact, and indices according to their level of abstraction or
specifity.Barthes classes
functions as either cardinal, which are both consecutive and consequential, or
catalyst, which are only consecutive. In other words, cardinal functions are
critical to narrative progression, whereas catalysts may be crucial to the
telling of the story but their omission will not affect the basic structure of
the story itself. True indices refer to “the character of a narrative agent”
[2, page 96] such as an emotion, mood, or atmosphere, whilst the other subclasses, informants, locate
within the temporal environment of the narrative. Barthes argues that
everything within a narrative is essentially constructed from these four
classes of objects. In itself, this taxonomy is important because it enables a
structural, rather than semantic, classification to occur when approaching
narratives, asking questions such as whether there is a dearth of catalyst
functions (suggesting a lean, reportage style of text), or large numbers of
informants present (perhaps prompting a
higher level of trust in the reliability of the narrative).The idea of functional units is
extremely powerful because they operate far below the threshold of a fully
formed narrative situation that has been so problematically applied to games.
Conceptually, it is not difficult to conceive of a situation whereby as Jenkins
notes “Narrative can also enter games on the level of localized incident, or
what I am calling micronarratives” [4, page 125]. However, his conceptualization of micronarrative
is problematic as it just seems to lower the threshold beyond which a sequence
can be defined as a narrative, which rather misses the point of the ludologists
issues with their structure rather than their scale [5, 6]. More useful is
Carr’s notion of protonarratives.Carr also notes that narratives are
composed of isolatable units that, whilst not containing explicit causal
sequences, have a form of interpretative predisposition hardwired into them
[3]. In other words, we can understand a network of units that, when perceived,
is likely to lend
themselves to one particular interpretation over another. Bartlett famously conducted a study, whereby
native American myths with nonwestern narrative structures were converted in
memory by Western subjects to yield more conformist and recognisable Western
narratives [7, pages 64–94]. Between the preexisting interpretative structures of the
subject and a network of protonarrative units that predisposes a particular
interpretative outcome, a story is formed. Thus, for the remainder of this
paper, when we speak of stories, it is the protonarrative network with its
predetermined relationships we are referring to.This conceptualization of story
neatly sidesteps the narrativity debate by not requiring games themselves to be
narrative objects, but simply to contain a set of objects at least some of
which have predetermined semantic as well as ludic relationships.
Protonarrative networks may contain sequences, but it is just as likely that
the colocation of their constituent elements will be enough to trigger a
particular interpretation by the player. There are very clear links here to
schema theory.


## 3. Schema, Story and Games

Schema theory essentially posits a set of inbuilt and learned
mental architectures that hold generalised situational knowledge. Schank and Abelson’s
contextual dependency theory [8] is schematic at root such as Minsky’s frames:
“a data-structure for representing a stereotyped situation” [9, page 1]. The basic
notion of schema is that once enough cues have been received to trigger the
schematic response; the following operations are essentially put through this
filter.Thus, not only may we infer a story
schema from Bartlett ’s
study, but we can
also propose schema for media experience and gaming. Indeed, Ijsselsteijn
(2003) argues that learned schemata
are fundamental factors in users’ experiences of media:From
the anecdotal evidence accumulating throughout media history, it becomes
clear that people’s responses to media are not a linear product of the extent
of sensory information that the medium provides but are very much shaped by people’s
previous experience with and expectations towards media. It would seem
a little odd to us now if people should panic and run out of a movie theatre
at the sight of an approaching train on the screen. This is because ourmedia schemata, or knowledge
representations of what media are, and are capable of, tell us what to expect
from mediated experiences, including the perceptual tricks that cinema or VR
can play on us. (2003:37).When schemata
are triggered, they adjust the interpretation of further signals, making other schemata more or less
likely to fire in turn: priming occurs. For example, closure is generally
agreed to be a fundamental, even unavoidable aspect of narrative, to the extent
that Kermode wonders, “Why does it require a more strenuous effort to believe
that a narrative lacks coherence than to believe that somehow, if one could
only find it, it doesn’t?” [10, page 53]. Thus, when the schema for story fires, we
could postulate that it increases the expectations of closure and following the
type of interpretive activity that may occur. Equally, once a situation crosses
the threshold to be identified as a first-person shooter, the shooter schema
fires and predisposes a certain type of perceptual activity and action. In a
pilot study, Pinchbeck et al. [11] noted that experienced FPS players tended to
centralize their gaze and use the mouse to visually explore the environment,
whereas inexperienced players tended to keep the mouse static and allow their
gaze to move around the screen. A possible explanation of this disparity in
visual behaviour is that experienced players know that shots, when they need to
be fired, will hit whatever is central on the screen. Thus, it is advantageous
to synchronise the acts of visual exploration and aiming.Schemata
offer a model by which a network of units would trigger a particular
interpretative frame. In other words, all a game needs to do is to contain a suitable
network of protonarrative objects, and a player will tend towards a story-like
interpretation of their play. This offers a functional bridge between Juul’s
“real rules and fictional worlds” [12, page 163]. A story interpretation, therefore,
becomes, as Rein and Schon describe “one of a class of framing procedures, that is, strategies for organising and deriving
solutions for problems” [13], or “an organising principle for human action.” [14]. In other
words, a protonarrative network which triggers a story schema to fire as the
primary interpretative device may help players to understand what occurs during
the game session. It should also be
noted that there is no contradiction or complication arising from both story
and shooter schema firing simultaneously. The experience of playing, Bioshock
(2007) or S.T.A.L.K.E.R. (2007) games which invests so much, so clearly, in
their stories, is clear evidence of this.This
paper is primarily concerned with the simple question of whether a strong story
helps players remember more of their gameplay experience and in better detail.
This begs the question of why we might expect this to be the case, and that
requires us to consider the relationship between memory and story in a little
more detail.


## 4. Stories and Memory

In his classic study, Tulving proposed a distinction between
two forms of memory:“Episodic memory
receives and stores information about temporally dated episodes or events, and
temporal-spatial relations among these events. A perceptual event—is always
stored in terms of its autobiographical reference to the already existing
contents of the episodic memory store. Semantic memory is the memory necessary
for the use of language. It is a mental thesaurus, organized knowledge a person
possesses about words and other verbal symbols, their meaning and referents,
about relations among them, and about rules, formulas, and algorithms for the
manipulation of these symbols, concepts, and relations.” [15, pages 385–387].Eysenck and Keane [16, page 165] note that there has been some controversies whether
this distinction actually obfuscates a unitary process, but it is the natural
fusion of episodic memory and schema that are of interest here. In particular,
the autobiographical and temporal aspects of episodic memory have very clear
conceptual relationships to the notion of story schema and, indeed, narrative
psychology has made much of this.Conceptually, there is only a short step to be made from an
autobiographical memory, where a sense of coherent self relative to a sequence
of events is held by an organism, to the idea that our inner experience is a
form of story in itself—though at this point we will revert to the term
narrative in keeping with the literature and to avoid confusion with our
ludically orientated definition of story used elsewhere. Robinson
and Hawpe make this point, for example, “Experience does not automatically
assume narrative form. Rather, it is in reflecting on experience that we
construct stories” [13, page 111]. This would seem to suggest that whilst episodic
memory in itself needs
not be explicitly narrative, any reflection upon it is. Further, Crossley argues that by planning
our lives and ourselves, we engage in a filtering process, thus, creating an
ongoing narrative from the nonlinear, frequently noncausal complexity of life
[17]. Equally, our own actions and responses, including memories, are filtered
and represented to form the self.Indeed, the self may be seen as the result, illusory or not,
of predictable responses to environmental situations. In other words, a sense
of coherence in response suggests a coherent, locatable self at the centre of a
complex and shifting world. Thus, the inward projection of a self as distinct
from the environment, tied up in the process of distal attribution, or reality
inferral [18], requires a temporal sequence of coherence in order to logically
maintain itself. In other words, without a sense that the self that is being
postulated existed prior to the current experience, and without the sense that
past and current experiences fall along a single trajectory of ongoing
experience, the construct cannot be maintained.The autobiographical function of episodic memory may, then,
not simply be to enable the storage, recovery, and implementation of
representations of prior events and body states, but also to enable the
illusion of a singular, unitary self to exist in the first place. Just as the
psychological processes surrounding presence, vection, and so forth, all enable
the organism to separate itself from the environmental field, so episodic
memory anchors it to its own developmental past. If the formation of causal
sequences in relation to a stable perspective is fundamental to the sense of
self, then, narrative is given a very core position in our subjective being
indeed. Bruner, for example, argues for a “protolinguistic readiness for
narrative organisation and discourse” [19, page 80], whilst Nath [20] contends that
narrative is a critical component of assembling a subjective stance and thus
crucial to any experience. Underlying these claims is, however, a rather weak
and inclusive definition of narrative, more an “assimilating structure” [21, page 91] than a represented causal sequence. We are reminded of Juul’s point that in
the narrative/ludology debate, the narrativists were characterised by a very
inclusive definition of narratives, whereas the ludologists demanded a much
less inclusive one [12, pages 156–159].Once again, schema theory offers a middle ground. We do
appear to be, at least given the evidence of their ubiquity, story-telling
animals as Schank has argued [22]. Stories are common and powerful schema, and
what can be taken from the more extreme narrative psychology positions is that
there is a conceptual and structural closeness between schema and narratives
that may explain why this is the case. In terms of games, the tendency for us
to tell stories may lead us to two hypotheses:(i)
That player will tend to format their
gameplay experiences as stories, even when story is not a dominant feature of
gameplay. This is analogous
to Bartlett’s
subjects framing the contents of “The War of the Ghosts” to fit their most
comfortable means of recall;(ii)
That where the protonarrative units
within a game (world, characters, and avatar) can most easily be formed into a
network, or where a stronger set of predetermined relationships (the plot) exists,
players will find it easier to remember details about these units which are not
directly related to gameplay. In other words, by formatting the play experience
as a story, nonludically significant detail will be more easily and effectively
recalled.


## 5. The Study

This is all very well in
principle and theory, but what empirical evidence can be offered to support it,
and how does it relate to the practical business of game development? The
following section is a summary of the paper original published at Cyber games
2007, and the reader is referred to this paper for a full analysis of results
[1].A simple study was carried out,
whereby twenty-six participants played either Bethsheda’s Call of Cthulhu: Dark
Corners of the Earth (2006), or id’s Doom3: Resurrection of Evil (2005) for 40
minutes in more-or-less natural playing conditions and then undertook a
semistructured interview. In this interview, subjects were asked to discuss
four factors in their experiences:
the world they explored, the characters they met, the avatar they controlled,
and the sequence of events—literally “what
happened when you played the game?” There were two data sets under
investigation. Firstly, the quantity and quality of information about the
gameplay experience reported; and secondly, whether there was apparent use of
clear story structuring in the reports obtained. Thus, the study aimed to
determine whether there was any evidence that a game with a strong and complex
story such as Cthulhu (CTH) aided recall or prompted recall with a story-like
structure, and whether either of these factors were present or diminished in
the relatively unnarrative resurrection of evil (RES). Readers are referred to
the original paper for a discussion of the in-game narratives and gameplay of
these titles. The key factors of the results are, however, reproduced below.


### 5.1. Character

CTH subjects demonstrated a
generally good grasp of the large cast in the opening levels of the game. When
asked “Can you tell me about some of the characters you met in the game?”, most
subjects responded by talking about classes of characters. Individuals were
mentioned less and, interestingly, the most frequently mentioned individuals
were not actually met in the game but integrated within goal structure.
However, it was intriguing to note that 5 subjects included the avatar in their
choices of reported
characters.By contrast, there are only two
named NPCs in RES, one (George) is met briefly during the first level and the
other (McNeil) being visually introduced in the opening cutscene and
represented by occasional radio contact. Alongside, there is an unnamed marine
who bequeaths his weapon and immediately dies and various unnamed and doomed
voices that occasionally come through over the radio. The opening cutscene
shows the player’s squad being killed prior to play starting. What is
interesting is that given the paucity of NPCs in the game; one might expect the
NPCs to stand out; however, only 5 of the 13 players remembered McNeil; none
remembered her name correctly. Less than half (5/13) reported George and only
one guessed at his name. Half the subjects spoke of the other marines and team
mates, suggesting that
they “could speak to you,” or “they were helping you.” Of these, only one noted
that the entire squad was wiped out prior to play starting, though it is
possible that they
attributed the unnamed grabber gun marine to this squad. The CTH subjects were
altogether more successful at recalling names. Only 5/13 could not recall a
single name from the game, and two of these later remembered.All subjects from both groups
had no problem when asked to provide a motive for one of the characters they
had identified. In the CTH group, these were usually fairly accurate, and in
many cases picked up on subtle nonludically significant information. Player’s
asked about the motive for the marines being on Mars in RES which were far less sure
and in some cases highly creative in their responses. 9/13 players were asked
and the results
varied from the semiaccurate “there was an incident,” “they used to go there
and lost the colony” to the false “they have discovered this archeological
site,” “conducting some research,” and fanciful “human curiosity.” Only one
subject noted the cover story given in the opening sequence.


### 5.2. Environment

Subjects
were asked to talk about the environments they visited and then prompted with
two further questions: any particularly memorable features or details, and what
sounds were present? CTH splits into two levels: the opening sequence in a
dilapidated cult mansion and its underground tunnels and Innsmouth itself. RES
is all set in an archeological dig site, with alien architecture slowly
transforming into the human base sited above it. These were variously described
as caverns, mines, high-tech industrial, and Aztec. The presence of technology
was noted, often (4/13) in relation to the number of boxes and crates lying
around. What was most striking about RES subjects descriptions of the
environment was how directly indexed to gameplay mechanisms many of them were.
6 of the 13 subjects talked explicitly about generic game devices rather than
the presented environment.The darkness of the
levels was the consistent feature noted, with all subjects referencing it.
Beyond that, features were evenly distributed between pits, doors, and
interactive objects (a power cell transplant sequence was noted by 4 subjects).
It was quickly recognised by 5 subjects that each hostile agent was preceded by
a signature sound; aside from this, ambient noise was noted. However, no
subject reported the radio transmissions that sporadically interrupt the
action, nor the direct instructions from McNeil.The CTH group found it easier to
talk about the environments, perhaps due to the diversity of spaces they
encountered. 12/13 subjects differentiated between the two playable levels. Two
subjects confused the cult house with the asylum in the opening cutscene, which
may be attributable to the morgue and experiment rooms in the basement. A
further 7/13 used distinct narrative structuring when describing the
environments. 4 of the 13 subjects referred to a gameplay mechanism: the save
point, the fact that the designers increased tension by reducing the sizes of
the environments at critical moments, the reduction of the visual field with
movie bars to indicate a cutscene, and the lack of weapons increasing a sense
of vulnerability. Finally, 4/13 subjects reported the town’s name unprompted
(two were correct), which may be interpreted as evidence as it was engaged with on
a homodiegetic level rather than just as a game map. It is also worth noting
that two subjects questioned the reality of the Innsmouth level altogether,
both suggesting that the entire episode was actually a hallucination and that
the player had never recovered from the six-year psychotic break that separates
the levels. Again, this may be taken as evidence that they were engaging with
the environment at a significantly narrativised level.


### 5.3. Avatar

One thing both study groups
shared was a very distinct conceptual distance between player and avatar. Only
two subjects in the entire study referred to the action in the first person.
Further, the majority used the second when discussing plot, character, and
environment: “you go into the basement,” “you are this marine.”However, it is important to note
that over identification with the avatar can be problematic, as it exposes the
limitations of the game system [23]. The fact that most of the subjects in the
study felt that they were controlling Jack or the marine, or in some cases
“aiding” them, acting as a team suggests that the avatars were functioning
effectively.Subjects were first asked about
their relationships
to the avatar, and then whether they thought he had a definable character. If
the answer was yes, they were prompted to try and encapsulate this personality
in few words. Finally, they were asked about their motives and whether they considered this to
be the same as their avatars.All but one of the CTH subjects
easily identified with Jack, citing the amount of background material as the
major reason they were able to do so (4/13 also stated that the gameplay device
of hearing his heartbeat increase in times of stress helped draw them in).
Although they clearly distinguished themselves from him, 6/13 said they felt
they were looking through his eyes, or otherwise, operating in tandem with the
character. One suggested he felt as if he was playing part of Jack’s mind, with
the game script providing the counterpoint. All the subjects said they could
identify a clear character, and their suggestions of personality fitted those
suggested by the game, with stating that the amnesia, whilst giving him a
motive to continue playing, was a block to this. The one subject who failed to
identify with Jack said that whilst the amnesia gave him a motive to continue
playing, it blocked his empathising with the character. Four also inferred
personality from his responses to the game’s action: “he asks a lot of
questions,” “he is very curious,” “he is not afraid of finding things out,” and
seamlessly integrating essential gameplay devices with the presented world.
Most felt that their motives
and Jack’s coincided—a drive to find things out, to solve the
mystery of not just Innsmouth, but the missing six years of his life.RES subjects found empathy easy
too but struggled more with the notion of character. Although 8/13 felt that the marine had a
character, when asked to summarise his personality, there were noticeable
pauses; then 5/13 constructed a personality based around their play styles—either “cool, level headed, not freaked out by
what is happening” or “a kick-ass marine.” The remaining four described the
avatar as bland, or a shell, though two of these suggested that as the story
progressed, they may understand more about him. One tied his motive to try to
find his squad, which is completely missing from the actual game; another
candidly pointed out that the initiation of the action comes from the avatar
picking up the artifact and that he was playing the “idiot who caused it all.”
Noticeably, the RES players were more likely (5/13) to differentiate their
motive from the avatars: whilst he was variously “trying to get to the
surface,” “escaping,” “staying alive,” “returning the artifact for study,” they
remained only superficially involved, wanting to explore the game, or just
responding to wave after wave of hostile avatar. Several (3/13) wanted
additional characterisation to flesh out the marine’s character.


### 5.4. Plot

The need for closure was highly
evident in both subject groups; most of whom assumed a closed narrative was
unfolding, even if they did not fully grasp it. CTH subjects generally coped
well with a highly complex narrative, including an unconventional temporal
sequence. One subject failed to identify Jack in the opening sequence; another
suggested that the suicide was successful and the Innsmouth level was not real.
All of the CTH subjects described the plot fully or near fully and did so using
clear storytelling structures: there was clear cause and effect and
understanding of temporal sequencing. More to the point, every subject thought
a story was operating behind the action—two even
suggested that it
was more important than the action (one describing the experience as more like
watching a film than playing a game) and were happy to ascribe the gaps in the
information they were given to a plot arc they had yet to uncover, although most assumed they would uncover it.
Asked if they believed that other characters within the game knew more than
they did, all but one answered yes. Certainly, Cthulhu is a mystery game and is
quite deliberately aimed at creating this impression. None of the subjects
found the action arbitrary—they all assumed
that it was only their ignorance of the final plot resolution that hindered
their understanding. Conspiracy, and its counterpart, amnesia, is a powerful
theme in FPS games, occurring in nearly every title, and it is evident why this
should be. Not only does it allow narrative development to be offered as a
reward scheme, but it also achieves two more direct gameplay functions.
Firstly, it lowers the player/avatar’s status, training them to be reliant upon
the system for information, which is why it is so often attached to high-status
NPCs. Secondly, it allows the system to gain control over information
shortfalls: it is simply not necessary to offer a complete package of
information if the closure is operating successfully—the player will
contribute at least the assumption that all will become clear and, as such,
shortfalls and contradictions can be masked.Tellingly, even though RES
subjects struggled to create a full narrative of their experiences, quickly degenerating into
brief summaries “monsters come and you shoot them,” “you just keep going until
to find the boss,” and several 3/13 admitted complete ignore as to what was
going on; most (7/13) believed there to be a story happening. This would seem
to confirm that Kermode’s question remains valid in the sphere of game
research. Only two drew attention to the PDAs lying around the environment
which provided background story. One was convinced that McNeil would be
revealed to be the nemesis figure (another essential FPS device). Two subjects
noted that the “leaders” (presumably McNeil), rather than being in possession
of extra information, had no idea what was happening or what to do about it; three
others correctly recalled her statement that “I have seen this before.”
Narrative plays a very small part in Resurrection of Evil’s action, and there
is little in the way of a coherent ecology: demons teleport in according to
shock value and challenge, and it is not altogether surprising that 4/13
subjects found the action arbitrary.


## 5.1. Character

CTH subjects demonstrated a
generally good grasp of the large cast in the opening levels of the game. When
asked “Can you tell me about some of the characters you met in the game?”, most
subjects responded by talking about classes of characters. Individuals were
mentioned less and, interestingly, the most frequently mentioned individuals
were not actually met in the game but integrated within goal structure.
However, it was intriguing to note that 5 subjects included the avatar in their
choices of reported
characters.By contrast, there are only two
named NPCs in RES, one (George) is met briefly during the first level and the
other (McNeil) being visually introduced in the opening cutscene and
represented by occasional radio contact. Alongside, there is an unnamed marine
who bequeaths his weapon and immediately dies and various unnamed and doomed
voices that occasionally come through over the radio. The opening cutscene
shows the player’s squad being killed prior to play starting. What is
interesting is that given the paucity of NPCs in the game; one might expect the
NPCs to stand out; however, only 5 of the 13 players remembered McNeil; none
remembered her name correctly. Less than half (5/13) reported George and only
one guessed at his name. Half the subjects spoke of the other marines and team
mates, suggesting that
they “could speak to you,” or “they were helping you.” Of these, only one noted
that the entire squad was wiped out prior to play starting, though it is
possible that they
attributed the unnamed grabber gun marine to this squad. The CTH subjects were
altogether more successful at recalling names. Only 5/13 could not recall a
single name from the game, and two of these later remembered.All subjects from both groups
had no problem when asked to provide a motive for one of the characters they
had identified. In the CTH group, these were usually fairly accurate, and in
many cases picked up on subtle nonludically significant information. Player’s
asked about the motive for the marines being on Mars in RES which were far less sure
and in some cases highly creative in their responses. 9/13 players were asked
and the results
varied from the semiaccurate “there was an incident,” “they used to go there
and lost the colony” to the false “they have discovered this archeological
site,” “conducting some research,” and fanciful “human curiosity.” Only one
subject noted the cover story given in the opening sequence.


## 5.2. Environment

Subjects
were asked to talk about the environments they visited and then prompted with
two further questions: any particularly memorable features or details, and what
sounds were present? CTH splits into two levels: the opening sequence in a
dilapidated cult mansion and its underground tunnels and Innsmouth itself. RES
is all set in an archeological dig site, with alien architecture slowly
transforming into the human base sited above it. These were variously described
as caverns, mines, high-tech industrial, and Aztec. The presence of technology
was noted, often (4/13) in relation to the number of boxes and crates lying
around. What was most striking about RES subjects descriptions of the
environment was how directly indexed to gameplay mechanisms many of them were.
6 of the 13 subjects talked explicitly about generic game devices rather than
the presented environment.The darkness of the
levels was the consistent feature noted, with all subjects referencing it.
Beyond that, features were evenly distributed between pits, doors, and
interactive objects (a power cell transplant sequence was noted by 4 subjects).
It was quickly recognised by 5 subjects that each hostile agent was preceded by
a signature sound; aside from this, ambient noise was noted. However, no
subject reported the radio transmissions that sporadically interrupt the
action, nor the direct instructions from McNeil.The CTH group found it easier to
talk about the environments, perhaps due to the diversity of spaces they
encountered. 12/13 subjects differentiated between the two playable levels. Two
subjects confused the cult house with the asylum in the opening cutscene, which
may be attributable to the morgue and experiment rooms in the basement. A
further 7/13 used distinct narrative structuring when describing the
environments. 4 of the 13 subjects referred to a gameplay mechanism: the save
point, the fact that the designers increased tension by reducing the sizes of
the environments at critical moments, the reduction of the visual field with
movie bars to indicate a cutscene, and the lack of weapons increasing a sense
of vulnerability. Finally, 4/13 subjects reported the town’s name unprompted
(two were correct), which may be interpreted as evidence as it was engaged with on
a homodiegetic level rather than just as a game map. It is also worth noting
that two subjects questioned the reality of the Innsmouth level altogether,
both suggesting that the entire episode was actually a hallucination and that
the player had never recovered from the six-year psychotic break that separates
the levels. Again, this may be taken as evidence that they were engaging with
the environment at a significantly narrativised level.


## 5.3. Avatar

One thing both study groups
shared was a very distinct conceptual distance between player and avatar. Only
two subjects in the entire study referred to the action in the first person.
Further, the majority used the second when discussing plot, character, and
environment: “you go into the basement,” “you are this marine.”However, it is important to note
that over identification with the avatar can be problematic, as it exposes the
limitations of the game system [23]. The fact that most of the subjects in the
study felt that they were controlling Jack or the marine, or in some cases
“aiding” them, acting as a team suggests that the avatars were functioning
effectively.Subjects were first asked about
their relationships
to the avatar, and then whether they thought he had a definable character. If
the answer was yes, they were prompted to try and encapsulate this personality
in few words. Finally, they were asked about their motives and whether they considered this to
be the same as their avatars.All but one of the CTH subjects
easily identified with Jack, citing the amount of background material as the
major reason they were able to do so (4/13 also stated that the gameplay device
of hearing his heartbeat increase in times of stress helped draw them in).
Although they clearly distinguished themselves from him, 6/13 said they felt
they were looking through his eyes, or otherwise, operating in tandem with the
character. One suggested he felt as if he was playing part of Jack’s mind, with
the game script providing the counterpoint. All the subjects said they could
identify a clear character, and their suggestions of personality fitted those
suggested by the game, with stating that the amnesia, whilst giving him a
motive to continue playing, was a block to this. The one subject who failed to
identify with Jack said that whilst the amnesia gave him a motive to continue
playing, it blocked his empathising with the character. Four also inferred
personality from his responses to the game’s action: “he asks a lot of
questions,” “he is very curious,” “he is not afraid of finding things out,” and
seamlessly integrating essential gameplay devices with the presented world.
Most felt that their motives
and Jack’s coincided—a drive to find things out, to solve the
mystery of not just Innsmouth, but the missing six years of his life.RES subjects found empathy easy
too but struggled more with the notion of character. Although 8/13 felt that the marine had a
character, when asked to summarise his personality, there were noticeable
pauses; then 5/13 constructed a personality based around their play styles—either “cool, level headed, not freaked out by
what is happening” or “a kick-ass marine.” The remaining four described the
avatar as bland, or a shell, though two of these suggested that as the story
progressed, they may understand more about him. One tied his motive to try to
find his squad, which is completely missing from the actual game; another
candidly pointed out that the initiation of the action comes from the avatar
picking up the artifact and that he was playing the “idiot who caused it all.”
Noticeably, the RES players were more likely (5/13) to differentiate their
motive from the avatars: whilst he was variously “trying to get to the
surface,” “escaping,” “staying alive,” “returning the artifact for study,” they
remained only superficially involved, wanting to explore the game, or just
responding to wave after wave of hostile avatar. Several (3/13) wanted
additional characterisation to flesh out the marine’s character.


## 5.4. Plot

The need for closure was highly
evident in both subject groups; most of whom assumed a closed narrative was
unfolding, even if they did not fully grasp it. CTH subjects generally coped
well with a highly complex narrative, including an unconventional temporal
sequence. One subject failed to identify Jack in the opening sequence; another
suggested that the suicide was successful and the Innsmouth level was not real.
All of the CTH subjects described the plot fully or near fully and did so using
clear storytelling structures: there was clear cause and effect and
understanding of temporal sequencing. More to the point, every subject thought
a story was operating behind the action—two even
suggested that it
was more important than the action (one describing the experience as more like
watching a film than playing a game) and were happy to ascribe the gaps in the
information they were given to a plot arc they had yet to uncover, although most assumed they would uncover it.
Asked if they believed that other characters within the game knew more than
they did, all but one answered yes. Certainly, Cthulhu is a mystery game and is
quite deliberately aimed at creating this impression. None of the subjects
found the action arbitrary—they all assumed
that it was only their ignorance of the final plot resolution that hindered
their understanding. Conspiracy, and its counterpart, amnesia, is a powerful
theme in FPS games, occurring in nearly every title, and it is evident why this
should be. Not only does it allow narrative development to be offered as a
reward scheme, but it also achieves two more direct gameplay functions.
Firstly, it lowers the player/avatar’s status, training them to be reliant upon
the system for information, which is why it is so often attached to high-status
NPCs. Secondly, it allows the system to gain control over information
shortfalls: it is simply not necessary to offer a complete package of
information if the closure is operating successfully—the player will
contribute at least the assumption that all will become clear and, as such,
shortfalls and contradictions can be masked.Tellingly, even though RES
subjects struggled to create a full narrative of their experiences, quickly degenerating into
brief summaries “monsters come and you shoot them,” “you just keep going until
to find the boss,” and several 3/13 admitted complete ignore as to what was
going on; most (7/13) believed there to be a story happening. This would seem
to confirm that Kermode’s question remains valid in the sphere of game
research. Only two drew attention to the PDAs lying around the environment
which provided background story. One was convinced that McNeil would be
revealed to be the nemesis figure (another essential FPS device). Two subjects
noted that the “leaders” (presumably McNeil), rather than being in possession
of extra information, had no idea what was happening or what to do about it; three
others correctly recalled her statement that “I have seen this before.”
Narrative plays a very small part in Resurrection of Evil’s action, and there
is little in the way of a coherent ecology: demons teleport in according to
shock value and challenge, and it is not altogether surprising that 4/13
subjects found the action arbitrary.


## 6. Conclusion

A game with a high emphasis on
story such as Cthulhu seems to enable players to recall a substantial quantity
of the information it presents, even when this is presented in a nonstandard
and incomplete fashion. Although players often fail to remember names, they are
adept at either recalling or inferring motive. Even though Cthulhu contains a
much higher number of characters than Resurrection of Evil, subjects were able
to remember much more about them, suggesting that players of the latter were
simply not paying any attention to them. This may sound banal, but it is
evidence that the system is training the player to attach significance.
Further, the fact that players of Resurrection found it difficult to recall
their actions in detail suggests that a strong plot may not only act as a
reward scheme but aid in orientation and postexperience affect.Players in both titles inferred
personality from cutscenes and homodiegetic information where this was lacking;
they frequently constructed it themselves from the activities of the avatar.
The environments and objects of Resurrection without a strong plot structure
were recalled often according to gameplay devices, whereas Cthulhu’s were
placed in a homodiegetic context. Finally, closure was clearly operating across
both games, even with a rudimentary narrative; Resurrection players inferred a
body of unknown information that many were convinced would be revealed to them,
even when they misread the plot—and often
remembered little of the primer from the opening cutscene.Thus, rather than a late
bolt-on, in reality no less simplistic, or the alternate reward system, we need
to consider story within games as an integrated aspect of the overall system.
If utilising narrative devices such as character, plot, closure, and voice has a direct
and dynamic impact upon the psychological processes in operation during the act
of play. Then, not only does this provide us  with a less subjective means of
interpreting story in games, but it begins to open up a pseudo-mechanistic
approach to putting together effective, ludically functional stories. In order
to achieve this, we have proposed that the common issues of narrative can be
bypassed if we utilise the concept of protonarratives to envisage story as a
network of objects, with a degree of predeterminism in terms of relationships
which tend to yield interpretation within a predetermined range.In a very real sense, this
invites us to, one way or another, avoid the “art” of stories in favor of the
“craft.” In analysing story in games in this way, the mechanics of the
application of story to game design can be exposed, making the highly complex
field of narratology and its application to psychology accessible to those
whose specialisms lie in other areas of game design and development. Further,
it highlights the direct impact story can have upon gameplay, in terms of
creating more memorable, complex and affective gaming experiences. We are in
the position, in terms of the maturation of the both game design and game
research, for the medium to demand a wholly distinct and specific understanding
of the nature and use of story as a functional technology.



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*Source: 783231-2008-04-30.xml*