Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice

“All of DC’s decisions are the result of fear,” Tim Burton once said in an interview about his pioneering comic book movies, and following the commercial underperformance of Man of Steel (making only 2/3 of the billion dollars they’d hoped for) their latest panicked flail is to throw Batman into the sequel in the hopes of riding the Dark Knight movies coattails to equal success. This has somehow lead us to Zack Snyder’s Batman v Superman, a bizarre mishmash of heroes and world-building for which I cannot discern the intended audience.

The basic plot of the film, which is remarkably difficult to follow due to the almost total lack of narrative connective tissue or introduction, is that Lex Luthor wants to destroy Superman for some reason, so he has a terrorist organisation in somewhere described as ‘Nairomi, Africa’ (not a typo) machine-gunned which people blame on Superman for some reason, but has them all killed with his own proprietary ammunition for some reason (you may be noticing a theme here) which Lois Lane starts tracking back to him while Superman goes on trial before the US Senate (a jar of Lex’s piss is also involved for some reason). Bruce Wayne wants Superman dead due to the whole complete destruction of Metropolis thing from the last film and spends his spare time building Kryptonite gadgets from a chunk of Zod’s ship, while Lex goads the two into fighting. Then Wonder Woman turns up and they fight a Cave Troll together. If I’m missing anything (and I’m cutting out a lot) it’s because this film manages to be both absurdly convoluted and largely nonsensical. And before you ask no, neither Batman with his detective skills nor Superman with his X-ray vision realise who the other one is, nor does anyone connect the alien superbeing with the Daily Planet reporter who looks uncannily similar to him.

The cast all seem to be trying to see how far it’s possible to remove their characters from the audience’s conception of them while still retaining the name. Batman gets the furthest away, being a murderous psycho who brands criminals and kills at least fifteen people over the course of the movie, and not even in the Arkham games way of snapping their spine while the game insists they’re not dead, he just flat out shoots people. The only thing connecting him to other iterations of Batman I know of (besides the armoured fursuit) is the obligatory opening scene of his parents being shot in slow motion. Superman spends the entire film moping and outside of a poorly-shot montage sequence does very little that could be considered heroic. The entire film also seems to proceed as if his X-ray vision disappeared in between films, as multiple plot points would not be able to happen if Clark took even a cursory glance at his surroundings.

Lex Luthor spends the entire film either very, very high or in the middle of a manic episode, in what can be described as the 2016 version of Eddie Redmayne’s performance in Jupiter Ascending, and as such keeps wavering between entertainingly camp and jarringly annoying from line to line.

And as for Wonder Woman, despite barely five minutes of screentime she’s probably the best part of the movie. Her sudden entrance during the Cave Troll fight accompanied by a sweet guitar riff and subsequent dismembering of said troll is the most engaging the film’s action scenes get, even though I don’t think her and Superman exchange even a single line.

The movie Batman v Superman reminds of the most is probably Oz the Great and Powerful, another film that only exists as set-up for another story. BvS pays lip-service to greater themes of justice and fear and gods and stuff, but it all falls away by the final act leaving our heroes to fight a new enemy who has nothing really to do with anything, and several inconsequential dream sequences and a subplot of Lex tracking the future Justice League members tease future films without adding anything to the movie. I’m not really sure who this movie is for, the bizarrely grim elements are inappropriate for younger viewers (the traditional superhero audience) but unlike Nolan’s films they never coalesce into more thoughtful material that could appeal to adults. In the end I can only think to compare it to watching a twelve-year-old bashing their action figures together for 2 1/2 hours, by the end of which you’ll have long since ceased to care.


The Revenant or (the Expected Vice of Pretension)

So it’s Oscar season again and all the newspapers, blogs and news sites are banging on about the big awards films being thrown out around this time, whether it’s Jennifer Lawrence trying to pass for forty, Eddie Redmayne donning his latest outfit of exaggerated physical tics bearing the name of a real person, or Leonardo DiCaprio being raped by a bear. That last one’s not actually accurate but was what largely drew my attention to The Revenant, despite Alejandro Iñárritu’s name plastered all over it like a giant, wailing pretension alarm. In interviews the storied director said “I don’t consider [my] film a Western, Western is in a way a genre, and the problem with genres is that it comes from the word ‘generic’, and I feel that this film is very far from generic,” which is an interesting opinion since his finished product is about as generic and uninspired a revenge story as exists in cinema.

The Revenant is adapted from the novel of the same name, a loose retelling of the story of Hugh Glass, a fur trapper who clawed his way through the American wilderness after being left for dead by his friends following a bear attack. The story as it’s told in the movie is that after the mauling Leonardo DiCaprio is left behind by his party, with only cartoon villain Tom Hardy (wielding an equally cartoonish accent) and his half-Indian son (who exists only so Hardy can kill him and run off) for company. After Hardy’s done the deed he throws DiCaprio in a shallow open grave, and much of the remaining runtime is spent watching DiCaprio crawl his way across the frozen Canadian tundra in a way not so much reminiscent of The Grey as of Homer Simpson’s attempt to jump Springfield Gorge.

A few subplots are thrown in, with an ongoing feud between a Native American tribe and some French soldiers crossing paths with our hero from time to time, but overall the film is shockingly dramatically inert. DiCaprio is the only character with any depth, and about eighty minutes worth of  plot, character and theme are stretched over twice that length, leading to a largely forgettable movie that drags interminably. It’s actually hard to find much of interest to talk about unless you find DiCaprio’s gritted teeth face inherently interesting. This lack of effective drama also leaves the violence largely bereft of weight, causing me to laugh at the bloodshed and dismemberment instead of being in any way horrified.

For all that’s been made of the film’s technical achievements they don’t feel in service of much. It’s superficially pretty but many shots serve no purpose besides trying to ape Terrence Malick, and the much-publicised filming with natural light is undercut by the constant fisheye photography making it feel remarkably artificial. Iñárritu also tries to return to the long takes he used in Birdman, but while he clearly wants to be Alfonso Cuaron he lacks one of Cuaron’s most important talents in that field, that of knowing when to end a long take for dramatic effect. Whereas the famous tour of the warzone in Children of Men and Gravity’s eighteen-minute opening shot end in a way that propels the central drama of the moment to the forefront, Iñárritu’s takes keep going until they just kind of stop, creating a film full of weirdly inconsistent editing.

Heaven’s Gate is the obvious comparison here, another prestige Western by a prima donna director whose ever more ridiculous demands lead it way over budget. But while The Revenant shares that film’s visual spendor and distension of a thin plot and central theme that’s nowhere near as deep as it thinks it is, in the end Heaven’s Gate is just a very, deeply okay, if pretty, film while The Revenant is outright terrible, an interminable, pretentious slog only tolerable if you can laugh at brutal violence (and the brief moment where the bear appears to have sodomised DiCaprio). So it’s an almost certain shoe-in for Best Picture in a month or so.

Game of Thrones, Heart of Trash

“Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt you.” – Tyrion Lannister

Game of Thrones has become something of a cause célèbre in recent months, in large part due to its depictions of sexual assault. I personally gave up on the series with the Sansa incident (a line I drew in the sand several series back in an attempt to convince myself to keep watching), but what’s really began to irk me over the past few years is this series’ complete and total denial of its own identity.

At its core Game of Thrones is an exploitation soap opera, Dallas with dragons and softcore porn, but it’s so determined to be high art it can’t admit this to itself. The endless random prostitutes and rape victims used as window dressing clash violently with the show’s prestige aspirations, all of which get phenomenally boring very quickly as the show has no idea how to use them any more artistically than a cheap porno.

The real problem though is that as the show has become more and more obsessed with being taken seriously it’s proven it has no idea how to do that beside becoming more violent and miserable. It visits horror upon horror onto its cast without having any idea why besides ‘we got good reviews for Baelor and the Red Wedding, so misery’s artistic right?’, but all this does is sharply contrast with the unceasing softcore porn and make the violence unbelievably dull (I almost fell asleep during the umpteenth Theon torture scene). Whatever point the story originally had has been lost beneath the piles of tragedy it thinks makes a point in and of itself.

Part of this problem is inherited from the source material. A Song of Ice and Fire labours under the delusion that it is the great American novel or that it bears much resemblance to medieval European life*, and George RR Martin has a terrible habit of confusing randomness and misery for realism. This tends to kick the legs out from under his drama but the show takes it to a whole new level.

I think the best example of this problem with the show is its depiction of Ramsay Bolton. Villains who are completely and irredeemably horrible can work brilliantly in fiction (I hold that Amon Goeth is cinema’s greatest bad guy) but they need depth beyond their desire to cause misery. Joffrey may not have been the most complex character but he had the depth of being an entitled little shit given a position of power and influence far beyond his comprehension (like an evil Justin Bieber). Ramsay in the show however is just Joffrey 2.0, an attempt to recapture past success by creating someone even nastier, but the result is a one-note caricature who might just work in an exploitation piece but who falls completely flat in serious drama, and becomes incredibly boring.

Were Game of Thrones to embrace its nature and become full-on exploitation it would probably be quite fun. The first series’ sex scenes were so ridiculous and out of nowhere they had a certain charm the way good exploitation does, and that whole series’ embrace of its pulpy origins fitted the source material far better than the current deathly serious approach.

So in conclusion I implore Benioff and Weiss to just accept their show for what it is. Drop the pretensions to high artistry, let their twelve-year-old ids run rampant and let Game of Thrones flourish into the wilfully sleazy splatterfest it was always meant to be.



Spectre – Sam Mendes is the Author of All My Pain

It’s easy to forget but James Bond is one of our weirdest enduring cultural phenomenons. Each structurally and dramatically near-identical outing is a unique snapshot of the trends of its time and their concepts of traditional masculinity, which in the end are all that make up Bond as a character. Over the past few years though the series seems to have gotten stuck in a rut, in what appears to be some sort of existential crisis.

The iteration of the plot this time around is that following a personal mission-gone-wrong left to him by the late Judi Dench and opening credits featuring softcore tentacle porn (I’m not kidding), Bond and friends are introduced to Jim Moriarty from Sherlock, mugging like a jackass having clearly been told to ‘do that thing you do on TV’ and cackling about how the double-O section is outdated and he’s firing all our heroes to replace them with a worldwide surveillance system M describes as “Orwell’s worst nightmare”, just in case we missed that he’s the villain. As this plan largely sits on the backburner for most of the film it forms a sort of B-plot, whilst Bond traipses across the globe in pursuit of a mysterious man in a Nehru jacket running a global supervillain network called Spectre. An attempt is made at giving the pair a childhood backstory, but like any character whose appeal relies on being portrayed as ceaselessly cool (see also Batman) any attempt to explicitly define Bond’s childhood feels like it undercuts him as a character.

Half of this film is pointless, but I’m not sure which half. Both villains function identically running their scheme to consolidate multiple country’s intelligence services into a single world-spanning organisation, neither really depends on the other for anything and Moriarty barely has any motivation for any of this. He seems to exist solely so Moneypenny, Q and a very bored Ralph Fiennes have something to do for the climax while Bond is elsewhere. Surprisingly Spectre doesn’t feel overlong at two-and-a-half hours, but at least a third of the script could be cut without effect.

Mendes appears to have either given up or royally screwed his second go at Bond, as almost none of his splendid direction from Skyfall returns here. After a fantastic opening chase through Mexico City’s Day of the Dead festival the rest is weirdly flat and lifeless, beginning with a fight in a helicopter that largely cuts back and forth between near-identical interior punch shots and repetitive takes of the chopper steady over the parade, before frequently cutting away from dramatic helicopter stunts you’d think you’d want to show off. It only really comes to life again a couple of times during later action sequences, with a particularly fun train punch-up, but even a night-time high-speed pursuit through the streets of Rome feels lethargic. Tonally the film is shaky as well, repeatedly undercutting its general target of a lighter, jokier vibe than its predecessor with jarring death-obsessed moments that would make Katniss Everdeen flinch.

The biggest problem I alluded to earlier though, is that I don’t think this franchise knows what to do with itself. Both Spectre and Skyfall are weirdly defensive movies, seemingly made under the assumption there is some massive cultural backlash against the franchise against which it must assert itself. Skyfall went so far as to have M literally defend the franchise in court with terrorists bursting in at the opportune moment to prove her point, along with a running theme of Bond using low-tech means to save everyone from the new guard’s fuck-ups but Spectre takes it even further. Every five minutes for its first half it has M and Moriarty pop up to say first “The double-O section is outdated, I’m closing it down muhahahaha” and then “No, we totally need the double-O section” over and over again. The public distaste for Quantum of Solace seems to have sapped all this franchise’s confidence and while Skyfall had some Oedipal thing going on and Spectre makes an effort to be The Bourne Ultimatum both these films are essentially thematic tautologies: they exist to explain why they exist.

It’s also emblematic of the way Mendes is going about storytelling here. Whereas films like Goldeneye, Casino Royale and even Quantum of Solace created worlds from which the familiar Bond tropes naturally grew Skyfall and Spectre start with those tropes and work backwards to try and justify them. The bad guy has a secret desert villain headquarters with a private torture room not because he’s someone who would do that, but just because that’s what Bond villains do (apparently), just like Bond’s new car having exhaust flamethrowers and an ejector seat, and him and the female lead falling for each other for no discernible reason. The result is that Mendes’ Bond films are just made from bits of other movies without much identity of their own; the villain and scarred baddie from You Only Live Twice, the giant mute henchman from The Spy Who Loved Me (minus anything to make him distinctive) and even the climax feels like a riff on Craig’s first entry.

Spectre is ultimately little more than a hollow shell the Bond franchise has constructed around its own insecurities, and all its insistence about how relevant and vital it is in the modern age just causes me to wonder the opposite. Casino Royale deconstructed the Bond movie almost a decade ago to great acclaim, but you can only play that card once as deconstruction only examines what’s already there without adding anything new. In this new world where the series seems to primarily exist to explain why it exists, do we really need James Bond?

The Matrix as Transgender Metaphor

As one of the defining films of my generation The Matrix has always cast a long shadow, both in its incredible genre influence and its eternal tendency to bring absolute morons out of the woodwork declaring it to be the most intelligent and meaningful film ever made for suggesting the world isn’t real (with Inception nobly taking the baton for kids today). I have a different, more personal reading of this movie however as being fundamentally about one woman’s journey into the world, and it begins with its directors.


The Wachowskis, under attack from a pink cephalopod

Lana Wachowski as you may know is transgender, and I see The Matrix as being a metaphor for a trans woman coming out and asserting her identity against a world which refuses to acknowledge her. The film runs on an extremely blunt ‘rebirth as your true self’ metaphor with a protagonist whose name literally means ‘new’ (I love Wachowski subtlety), and while on its own this could symbolise practically anything what strikes me about its execution is that Neo’s embrace of his identity as ‘The One’ against the world oppressing him is represented by his name.

In the extremely on-the-nose interrogation scene early on, Agent Smith describes him as having two lives with two different names. In public he is Mr Thomas Anderson, while in private he goes by Neo, a name he picked himself. Throughout the film he is only referred to by the former by representatives of authority, his boss and Smith (almost always specifically as ‘Mister’ Anderson), while his friends only ever use the name he chose himself.


Note the outfits

On its own this could represent anything, but what clinches it for me is that Neo’s big moment of asserting his true identity as ‘the One’ by defeating an Agent is preceded by this exchange:

Agent Smith: You hear that Mr. Anderson? That is the sound of inevitability. It is the sound of your death. Goodbye, Mr. Anderson.
Neo: My name is Neo. [Smashes Smith with a train]

Of all the possible things he could have said in the face of death, he chose to assert his name.

I think it’s also worth noting the position Neo is in at the film’s end. He’s discovered who he truly is, embraced that in the face of the world’s attempt to stop him and found his own power, but the world itself has not changed. He hasn’t led a glorious revolution and upended the status quo, it’s still in place essentially unchanged, still views him as a threat and with his newfound openness about who he is will likely redouble its attempt to oppress him.

I think queer interpretations can be found in almost all the Wachowski’s works. Besides the obvious example of Bound and Sense8, Racer X’s situation of being unable to tell his family he changed his appearance and identity could could be seen as analogous to Lana having transitioned by Speed Racer’s production, but not being publicly out at the time, and a whole book could be written on the gender-switching politics of Cloud Atlas. I’ve no idea of knowing whether The Matrix was intended the way I see it, or if Lana deliberately drew on her experiences writing the film but I certainly feel there’s more textual evidence for this reading than for, say, the popular queer reading of Frozen.

Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain Of Disappointment

It truly is the end of an era. As Konami’s public relations death spiral continues, torching their every professional relationship like a gephyrophobic pyromaniac, it’s finally Metal Gear Solid’s turn for the chopping block (at least until the inevitable pachinko machine). As a long-time fan of the series who considers Sons of Liberty to be one of gaming’s finest artistic accomplishments I could hardly have been more eager to get my grubby mitts on the series’ swan song, but by the closing credits I found myself somewhat relieved that it’s over.

Hideo Kojima’s tussles with his bosses over this game have been well-documented elsewhere so I won’t reiterate them, but in the final product he seems to be somewhat overcompensating as every single mission begins and ends with his name, a move initially coming off as a righteous jab at his former employer but which quickly feels like an almost Wiseauean level of egotism. This time the auteur’s decided to go open world, which proves something of a detriment to the series. Mechanically the game is very solid, stealth and combat are the smoothest they’ve ever been and traversing the beautiful Afghan landscape to infiltrate a base and kidnap people with balloons is natural and fluid, never feeling clunky aside from a bug causing snake to run sideways endlessly which got me killed more than once. After some initial fun however the flaws quickly make themselves apparent.

First, the open world structure kills any sense of story drive or pacing. Doing side missions or building up your base as the game tells you forces the plot to take an almost total backseat; for the first twenty hours I played after the opening doing what the game encouraged me to do almost nothing happened narratively. It also has the same problem of recent Far Cry games in that while the map is huge and expansive practically every enemy base is cobbled together from identikit buildings. None have any real personality as a result and so the map feels remarkably drab and repetitive, with even a mid-game setting change from Afghanistan to Zaire lacking any distinct change to the feeling of gameplay. There’s also very little interaction between the player and the world, for all the exploration and wildlife it’s lacking something like Snake Eater’s survival mechanics giving the player an immediate connection to the land around them, and so despite all the environmental detail the world feels very artificial. It also doesn’t help that these ostensible combat zones have no non-enemy presence. You stumble across prisoners from time to time but unlike Guns of the Patriots there are never any skirmishes or friendly troops and this supposedly active warzone feels almost peaceful. The updated version of Peace Walker’s base-building mechanic feels similarly forced and artificial, for all your headquarters’ expanse there’s nothing to do there, and no reason to return outside of story obligation.

Missions have a similar problem, practically every one is sneaking into an anonymous base and either shooting an anonymous soldier, ballooning them, blowing up a static object or if you’re really lucky ambushing a convoy on a road. Nearly every mission is interchangeable and they become repetitive very quickly, and only a few main story missions have anything to do with the immediate story at hand. This destroys any sense of being part of the larger story, which happens almost entirely offscreen. Kojima said he felt cutscenes were outdated but here he has nothing to replace them with. Here’s how the story plays out: Big Boss gets sent on a generic mission involving an anonymous enemy soldier in an identikit base. He shoots/kidnaps the soldier and then Kaz calls you up on the radio to narrate what happened while you were away. Not even a CODEC call like previous games in which two people have a back-and-forth developing both their characters, just a guy monologuing the game’s Wikipedia summary at you.

It also really doesn’t help that the few characters you do meet have been stripped of any personality. Kaz and Ocelot are nothing but nigh indistinguishable grizzled military stock characters and what supporting cast there is are almost as boring. There are no interesting villains either, the main bad guy Skull Face is a cipher without even the traditional MGS gimmick until he gets his villainous monologue explaining himself in practically the same cutscene he leaves the story in. Even the series’ colourful and engaging bosses are gone, our supporting villains are generic supersoldiers fought in repetitive and simplistic fights without any of the complexity or inventiveness of the series’ previous boss fights. Kojima does throw in a few cutscenes here and there, all done as one continuous take which does a good job of integrating them with gameplay but also aptly demonstrates that he is no Alfonso Cuaron. However most of them just consist of Kaz, Ocelot and Huey (well-characterised as an unlikable fuckhead) bickering back at base which gets old fast, and between the lack of engaging characters and the detachment of the player from the events of the story there’s no real drama here. It’s only a story in the loosest sense, and almost all context for what there is is given through optional audio recordings (the single worst expository device in gaming as you’re just asking the player to stop playing and listen to your notes you couldn’t be bothered to work into the game). The ending comes out of nowhere too, the result of Kojima having to cut its entire final third, resulting in a tale with no resolution or point to what has come before.

Then we have the problem of Quiet. Metal Gear Solid’s relationship with women has always been strange to say the least, but while its prior success in juggling wildly varying tones allowed it to create sincere drama out of the most outlandish scenarios (in a similar manner to James Bond) here it completely falls apart. Dressed like a decaying stripper and shot like a Dead or Alive volleyball match Quiet’s mere presence undercuts any dramatic tension, and while this series has featured many ridiculously dressed female characters over the years their outfits fitted with their game’s tone and world – EVA’s spy catsuit suited Snake Eater’s sixties spy motif and the Beauty and the Beast corp’s high-tech bodysuits matched their game’s slick futuristic aesthetic – but Quiet shoots through the suspension of disbelief line and never looks back. The scene of her being tortured later on by electroshocking her breasts would have been my ‘fuck it, I give up’ moment had the story ever had me.

The tonal issue is even worse as Kojima has decided to attempt a very serious narrative about child soldiers, meaning the game flits back and forth between Spring Breakers and Beasts of No Nation from mission to mission. Thankfully though he was smart enough to keep them separate save for one brief cutscene, but they just don’t belong in the same story.

More than anything though, this game feels half-finished. Not just in its utter lack of resolution but in that what is here feels desperately thrown together to meet a deadline. The vague, sketchily-told narrative, the disconnect between player action and story progression and the lack of any of the series’ signature features (colourful characters, complex boss fights et al) make it feel like a first draft of a game, lacking the polish to tie it together artistically. It’s a mess, and the first genuine failure of this series.

Really though, I’m glad this series is over. Ever since Guns of the Patriots wrapped up every single loose end this series ever had the following games have suffered from a severe case of prequel syndrome. No matter what potentially world-changing events occur none of it matters because it can’t affect anything meaningful in the future, as we know how it will all play out. We know Big Boss will be thwarted attempting to build his own nation of Outer Heaven, Liquid will take over Shadow Moses and be killed by Snake and Huey will drown himself after catching his son in bed with his stepmother. The more you add to this series the more pointless it feels and the more unlikely it seems that no-one in earlier games ever mentioned any of it (particularly Liquid). In the end I think it’s good that Kojima will be starting a new series somewhere else, unrestrained by his absurdly convoluted mythology, and I sincerely look forward whatever he comes up with. Until them though, I guess I’ll just have to find something else to fill its space and distract from the phantom pain of disappointment this game has left me with.

Pillars of Eternity and Player Motivation

Why do you play videogames? It’s a simple question, but every time you put down £40 for your latest toy you commit yourself to tens or hundreds of hours sat before a screen, so what is it keeping you interested and stopping you from putting the controller down and going back to finish Sense8?

It’s something I’ve been wondering for a while now, and never more so than while playing Pillars of Eternity, Obsidian Entertainment’s ode to the computer RPGs of the nineties like Baldur’s Gate and Icewind Dale. Funded by tens of thousands on Kickstarter (including myself) it is by all the usual metrics a success: 89/100 on Metacritic, awards from major gaming publications and the usual laudatory praise heaped on any game professing more narrative sophistication than your average Call of Duty sequel. Despite this, I and a not insignificant number of others have found it a surprisingly unengaging experience, which appears to be due to it suffering from one of modern gaming’s most damning flaws: assumed empathy.

It’s one of the biggest story problems you can have, expecting the audience to automatically care about the world and characters set before them and making no effort to convince them to do so, and yet it’s everywhere in modern gaming, particularly in the AAA market. Call of Duty expects the player to care about the fate of the United States every time it’s under attack from vaguely defined swarthy foreigners, Assassin’s Creed long ago ditched any attempt to make the player central to the story and Tomb Raider assumes that battering the player character will engender audience sympathy just because they puppeteer her between cutscene beatings. The worlds and character models are fabulously detailed but without an emotional investment it’s all for naught. So with this essay I’ve decided to examine the five main ways an RPG can motivate its players and invest them in its story, how to make them work effectively for your game and how PoE flubs each and every one.

The first is to make the player care about NPCs in the world. This is how all non-interactive fiction works, as the audience must form a human connection to a work of art to care about it (art being a reflection of human experience and whatnot). This is typically done in games by introducing the PC as having pre-existing relationships with story-relevant NPCs, building the player’s relationships with them early on and when the story kicks off it directly affects them, so the player’s emotional investment makes them want to follow the plot you’ve laid out. This is why the protagonist’s beloved peasant village getting nuked at the end of act one is a cliché, hurting or killing the PC’s friends is a simple way to make the player want revenge on the villain (which is why people still remember Aeris’ death in FFVII).

Bioware’s wuxia epic/Bridge of Birds knockoff Jade Empire does this well. The PC is introduced as a student at a martial arts academy and their relationships with three NPCs developed: Master Li, their teacher and the school’s headmaster, Dawn Star, a friend of the PC, and the Water Dragon, a mysterious apparition who tells you she’s wounded and in need of your help. By act one’s end Master Li is kidnapped, Dawn Star wants to rescue him and your beloved peasant village gets nuked by samurai Darth Vader. The player wants to rescue Master Li and take revenge on his attackers, and you’re on your way.

Pillars of Eternity meanwhile has a surprising lack of well-developed NPCs. The PC begins the game as a migrant to the land of Eora, before quickly falling victim to a soul-stealing hurricane which leaves them able to sense others’ souls. None of the tutorial NPCs are memorable or survive this maelstrom (not necessarily a bad thing), but for a long time after there are no NPCs for the player to form a strong emotional connection to the world through. Non-companion major NPCs with strong connections to the plot are absent for some time (besides the purposefully mysterious villain) and they rarely have much to talk to the player about besides their role in the plot. The same goes for the player’s companions. Each has their personal quest and motivation to follow it, but outside of that they barely exist. Unlike NPCs in most RPGs few have any connection to the setting you find them in, or if they do it tends to make itself manifest much later as part of their quest. This has the effect of feeling like you just pick up a lot of hitchhikers who are willing to put their own desires and goals aside to suicidally charge to their deaths for some stranger they just met, and if you leave them where you find them the overall story barely changes.

To go back to Jade Empire, many of the player’s companions initially have a personal connection to the place the player meets them, which helps get the player invested in that place and the conflict within it. For example in act three the PC meets Princess Lian1, the emperor’s daughter who moonlights as a ninja and who wants to defeat the Lotus Assassins, an organisation she believes has corrupted her father. The PC is chasing these assassins, revealed as the people behind the destruction of the PC’s beloved peasant village, and Lian’s personal connection to them helps to frame the conflicts in the Imperial City and the player’s personal goals with regards to them and their local influence, giving the player a reason to care about life in the Imperial City. PoE on the other hand repeatedly drops the player into new areas with their own conflicts, but there’s little to no human connection to them so for all the effort put into creating and developing resolutions to these conflicts they’re curiously uninvolving.

The second way to motivate your players is to threaten either them or the world. In the former case something or someone is attempting to kill the player and they fight back out of self-preservation. In the latter the fate of the world (or at least part of it) is endangered, and the player cares because they are invested in the NPCs who are part of it (as discussed above), as a story’s stakes are only as high as how much they impact characters who we care about. This is why the potential end of the world has become a cliché, as it threatens the end of both the NPCs the player is invested in as well as the world they connect the player to emotionally.

The PC in Jade Empire is visited early on by the Water Dragon, an entity who guides spirits to the afterlife but has been captured by the emperor, causing the recently deceased to get lost in the material world and lash out at people. The player cares about the world through their relationships with the NPCs they know and so wants to save it, and just prior to meeting the Water Dragon the PC meets the ghost of the academy’s previous master who, unable to find his way to the afterlife, attacks them. This and the continued threat of dispossessed spirits throughout the game makes the threat felt to the player, reminding them what is at stake.

The central threat to PoE’s world is introduced in the first town, a magical curse causing children to be born soulless. This forms the first major questline, of the player trying to find a way to fight the curse, siding with either religious extremists believing they can pray it away or a scientist favouring wildly unethical human experimentation, and either defending or overthrowing the local lord whose obsession with the curse has killed many who tried to help. The problem is the player has no immediate human connection to this threat via major NPCs until sometime into the quest. One companion is personally affected by this tragedy, but she is met far later in the game and her connection to it is only revealed over the course of her personal quest. The only major plot-relevant NPCs in the first town are the religious leader, the scientist and the lord but they are only met midway through the town’s questline so until that point the threat is more abstract. As in journalism all stories are ultimately human stories, but PoE forgets this and so when the player stumbles across a grand, complex and morally ambiguous conflict they have little incentive to care.

The looming threat to PoE’s PC, and the main plot proper, is also only introduced ten hours in. After the tutorial soul storm the game takes a break for the entire first town and its associated questlines to take place before the PC can discover what happened to them in the next major area, by which point the player may have lost interest in the mystery. The story then fails to make its stakes clear after the reveal, effectively that the player will go insane if they cannot find a way to keep their condition in check, by making said stakes multiple choice. The only occasions the PC’s condition can show any sign of deterioration is when responding to companions asking the PC how they feel (the flavour text gives barely any clues), but the responses range from ‘I’m fine’ to ‘AAAAAAAH!’ Stakes only matter to a story if they are imposed by external forces, and these are curiously lacking throughout much of Pillars of Eternity.

You may be wondering why Jade Empire of all things is my yardstick for RPG storytelling here, but it’s because Bioware’s incredible success as a developer, financially, critically and especially with players is because they are one of the few game developers consistently dealing in solid, functional storytelling. Nothing they’ve produced will ever be mentioned in the same breath as Don Quixote or Battleship Potemkin, but they have drama, stakes, import and meaning which make their stories so satisfying to experience. This is why their stories resonate with people to the extent of producing their massive, devoted following and why Jade Empire, a game I played as a twelve year-old, has stuck with me through all these years.

The third way of motivating your players is to make your story ultimately about them. This is the most crucial part of telling a story interactively, the player has to feel their actions affect the world around them to care about it. If nothing the player does feels like it has consequences their actions feel meaningless and continuing your game feels pointless. The clichéd RPG way of doing this is to make your PC The Chosen One, prophesised long ago by a cabal of old bearded men to be the only one capable of wielding the sacred plot device to defeat the Dark Lord and his guttural, dark-skinned minions. It’s hacky as fuck and more than a little yawn-inducing by this point (even if fantasy literature hadn’t run this trope into the ground when computer RPGs were still played on mainframes) but it ultimately works and the player feels like the story’s hero. If you’re more adventurous you can make the story about the PC’s development as a person over the course of the game, with how they act in the face of some non-world threatening situation as their defining moment. In either case, unless your story is entirely on rails and character development done solely through cutscenes (as in Final Fantasy), the method of developing the PC in your story is done through the mechanic of choice. The player is given options for how they react to characters and situations in the world and their decisions and impact on the world around them comes to define both them and their relationships with it.

Jade Empire goes the clichéd route, quickly revealing the PC as the last of the Spirit Monks, an order devoted to worshipping the Water Dragon and as such the only one who can restore her power and save the world. Choice is used throughout the game in every conversation and quest the player is involved in, but it falls into the same trap as many games by only including definite ‘good’ and ‘evil’ options, so the player can only really define themselves as either the humanist saviour of the world or its next tyrant. PoE’s developer Obsidian however often takes the more adventurous route in their work. Their deconstructionist take on the Star Wars mythos Knights of the Old Republic II is centred on the story of the Jedi Exile and is fundamentally a meditation on the concept of the force and how it relates to the concepts of Jedi and Sith. The player is given a wide variety of ways to respond to the world and characters around them, and the PC’s mentor Kreia is quick to point out the consequences and philosophical implications of every choice you make. Unlike KOTOR I which was a grand, galaxy-in-peril epic the sequel is a far lower key personal story, but the focus on the consequences of the player’s choices make the PC’s story feel more important to the point that even the villain’s later attempted invasion of a planet feels like background to the PC’s development.

With Pillars of Eternity however they completely miss what previously worked. The story is built about the PC’s journey and ultimately how they choose to act after discovering the truth behind the soul plague, but the PC is a blank slate leaving a huge void at the story’s centre. Their only backstory is a paragraph of text chosen during character creation which has no effect on the game. This is not a bad thing in and of itself but there’s little opportunity for the PC to express themself to others and so develop themself as a character outside of passing moral judgement at the end of quests, which makes them feel little more than a bland moral arbiter. Ironically the game’s morally ambiguous quest endings help make it feel less realistic, as every choice is presented as just as morally justified as any other. While it’s admirable to attempt something more nuanced than ‘give money to beggar/stab beggar’ real life does occasionally have more clearly-cut ethical problems, and their absence here feels artificial. It ultimately makes every quest feel like a constructed test for the player and not a natural product of the game’s world.

The fourth method for motivating players is to base your story around a central theme, with the PC’s journey exploring its nuances through both the main plot and subplots as the main point of the game. Planescape: Torment, a highly-regarded CRPG made by Obsidian staff when they worked at Black Isle, did this well, literally introducing its main theme of ‘what can change the nature of a man?’ outside the opening area and having the PC’s story devoted to exploring his past selves, their legacies in the world and ultimately why they differed from each other. Your companion’s questlines examined this further through exploration of their own histories. In Pillars of Eternity however they wait until its final act, over seventy hours into the game, before introducing its central point which turns out to be ‘what is the value of truth?’ There is no foreshadowing for this, no build-up, no real exploration of it beforehand in other contexts. It’s absurd, the entire (admittedly interesting) reason for telling this story in the first place is only introduced right before the end, making it feel tacked on from a different story. I mean who does that?

UntitledBesides David Fincher.

The final way is to create an interesting and alluring world the player wants to explore. This works best in stories where the PC is discovering a whole new world and Planescape: Torment pulled this off beautifully. The PC is an amnesiac who comes back from the dead to find himself in the city of Sigil, a place where anything can be a portal to another dimension, demons and gods walk the streets and the local pub is heated by a man who accidentally turned himself into a living conduit to an elemental plane of fire. The games builds wonderfully on the imaginative and original world of Planescape, which is actually necessary for the game as it initially fails to create much of a driving force for the story besides the player’s curiosity, but the world is interesting and fun enough to explore on its own.

PoE aims for this as well, but it fails because the world it creates looks and feels remarkably boring. This is due to it falling into one of fantasy storytelling’s more recent traps, that of ‘grounded’ or ‘realistic’ fantasy. The problem with this is its basis in the common modern idea that prior to the 1500s everything was miserable and drab, and what results is rarely anything more than the fairytale depiction of the Middle Ages with any attractive edges sanded off, so everyone wanders around in rags and the rich and powerful are distinguished by not being covered in shit. It’s by no means unique to games as anyone who saw that terrible ‘realistic’ King Arthur movie with Clive Owen can attest, but while this style can be used well in stories meant to parallel real-world issues (as in A Song of Ice and Fire and The Witcher) it adds nothing to PoE. Much of the game’s plot involves character’s relationships with gods, who are entities you can talk to and demand help from and a ‘realistic’ visual style adds nothing here. It also makes the related mistake of assuming that humourlessness equals realism, so there’s barely any levity throughout the game. It’s never grimdark by any means, but the perpetual po-facedness becomes quite dreary after a while.

It also feels unimaginative because it’s stuck in the post-Tolkien mindset unable to see outside of Lord of the Rings. All the usual elves, dwarves and orcs (blue-skinned here) are present but unlike their inspirations they don’t represent anything. Tolkien’s elves were what he saw as the best of humanity, which was a bunch of obnoxiously perfect tree-huggers, but PoE’s are just there because that’s what this genre does. Between that and the setting choice of a magical version of fourteenth century Western Europe this world feels barely any fresher than Eragon’s.

It’s all part of Pillar’s of Eternity’s strangest facet to me, which is that it’s weirdly conventional. Many of Obsidian’s previous works (particularly those written by Chris Avellone) have relished in deconstructing and examining CRPG tropes, but here they plays it straight. KOTOR II dissected the concepts of the party and experience points, the former being the PC’s unconscious ability to influence others to trust and follow them, and the latter the PC absorbing other’s life force as a hole in reality. Planescape: Torment explored player death with the PC’s immortality making respawning literal and eschewing normal CRPG stakes. With PoE he plays strictly to convention: characters will immediately throw themselves in front of a sword hours after joining you for little reason, animals assault you every few feet in the countryside and you massacre untold hundreds but no-one ever cares or reacts in any way. It even commits the classic post-Tolkien fantasy sin of assuming a story can only be good if it’s long, stretching ten-to-twenty hours worth of story over four times that. All in all it’s the anti-KOTOR II, unintentionally showing how blind adherence to stock RPG tropes warps your story instead of working with them to create it.

It’s ironic really, this genre was spawned by fans of tabletop RPGs like Dungeons & Dragons, in which convincing players to follow your story is one of the most crucial skills a DM can have. PoE’s highest Kickstarter reward even included playing a D&D game with the developers, and yet here they seem to have forgotten everything they learned. People ultimately play games and read books and watch films because they care about the stories being told and the fates of the characters within them, and in a game your audience is the main character. As a game developer you’re not just telling a story, you’re directing it as it happens and as for anyone directing actors the most important thing you have to get across to them them is their motivation. Everything else is window-dressing.


1Yes, they technically met in act two, but only here did you learn her identity and motives.

Edited on 19th September to correct wrongly attributing Chris Avellone as lead designer/writer.