What is Interactive Fiction?
The term "interactive fiction" (or IF) can have more than one meaning
in the context of computer-based storytelling. In this article, however, the term
will be used in the narrow sense of a turn-based program driven by textual input
from the player, responding with output that is principally or wholly textual, and
involving a parser and a world model (two terms which will explained shortly). For
the sake of brevity, the term "game" will be used to denote a work of
interactive fiction, though not all such works are equally ludic, and the reader
should not rush to equate IF "games" with the video-games more
commonly associated with contemporary recreational computing.
Such a work is
interactive fiction since it is up to the reader (or
player) to drive the story forward, usually by directing the actions of the main
protagonist (known in IF-parlance as the player character, or PC). A work of IF
typically opens with a brief textual description of the PC’s situation, perhaps also
giving some indication of the tasks the PC has to perform, or the challenges he or
she has to overcome, though these may not become apparent until the game gets under
way. In order to progress through the game the PC must explore his or her
environment, discover how things work, interact with any other characters in the
game (known in IF-parlance as non-player characters or NPCs), and often solve a
number of puzzles. The role of the player is to direct the PC in these tasks by
entering commands at the keyboard.
[1]
Part of the appeal of IF is the illusion that one has complete freedom to type
anything one likes at the game’s command prompt. It is an illusion
because, although one can indeed type anything one likes, the game will in fact
understand only a very restricted subset of English (or whatever language the game
was written in). The commands typically understood by a modern IF parser are largely
restricted to the following three formats: either a simple imperative verb (such as
LOOK, which generates a description of the PC’s current location), or an imperative
verb plus a direct object (such as TAKE THE BLUE BALL, which would cause the PC to
pick up the blue ball, assuming the action is possible), or an imperative verb plus
a direct object plus a preposition plus a second or indirect object (such as PUT THE
BLUE BALL IN THE BROWN BOX). This basic syntax can be slightly extended to allow
conversing with or giving orders to NPCs; so, for example, FRED, PUT THE BLUE BALL
IN THE BROWN BOX would be construed as a command to the PC to tell the NPC called
Fred to put the blue ball in the brown box.
The role of the parser in interactive fiction is to interpret such
commands so that the game can either respond to them appropriately, or tell the
player why it can’t. A modern IF parser is reasonably sophisticated at this task. If
there is both a red ball and a blue ball in the game, a decent parser will
nevertheless know what to do with a seemingly ambiguous command like TAKE BALL. If
only one of the balls is in sight, it will assume that this is the one the player
meant. If both balls are in sight but the PC is already holding one of them, the
parser will assume the player meant to refer to the other. Only if the parser is
unable to resolve the ambiguity in any such way will it ask the player to do so
(typically by asking a question like "Which ball do you mean:
the blue ball or the red ball?").
A more sophisticated parser will also deal automatically with certain implicit
actions needed to carry the player’s explicit command. For example if the player
types N (the usual abbreviation for GO NORTH) when going north would take the PC
through a closed door, a good parser will assume that the player wants the PC to
open the door first, and will first attempt opening the door as an implicit action,
only carrying out the main action if the required implicit action succeeds (it may
not, since the door may be locked or jammed or inaccessible for some reason). Or if
the PC needs to be holding the blue ball before he can put it in the brown box, then
a courteous parser will carrying out an implicit TAKE BLUE BALL command when the
player types PUT BLUE BALL IN BROWN BOX, rather than complaining that the PC needs
to be holding the blue ball first. Unfortunately, not all parsers achieve this level
of user-friendliness.
A modern IF parser works first by identifying what
action the player
intends, and then by resolving the nouns involved in the action. For example, the
TADS 3 parser (written in the TADS 3 language) first matches the player’s input
against the grammatical patterns (known as "grammar productions")
contained in the TADS 3 library and the game author’s own code: thus if the player
types PUT BALL IN BOX the parser first determines that this matches the pattern
PUT <noun phrase> IN <noun phrase> and so decides that the
current action is of type
PutInAction.
[2] The parser
then constructs lists of possible objects that could match the two noun-phrase
slots. Possible matches are restricted to those objects in the game that (a) possess
vocabulary corresponding to what the player typed and (b) are currently in scope
(roughly speaking, this means that they must be currently visible to the player
character). These lists are then sorted in order of logicality (i.e. fitness for
their role in the proposed action). For example, for a PUT IN action to succeed its
direct object (occupied by the first noun slot) must be something that the player
character can move, so that a small rubber ball will be a more
"logical" target for such a command than a large stone ball fixed to
the top of an ornamental balustrade. Likewise, for a PUT IN action to succeed, its
indirect object (occupying the second noun slot) must be a container of some sort,
so that, for example, a large cardboard box is a more "logical"
target for a PUT IN command than a box girder. If this object resolution phase
results in one and only one most logical possibility for each of the noun slots,
then the parser will settle on these objects; otherwise it will either request
further clarification from the player (to select from a number of possibilities) or
complain that there is nothing in scope that matches the command
entered.
[3]
The second defining characteristic of interactive fiction is the
world
model. Most IF is set in a simulated environment representing physical space
and the objects it contains (though there may be the occasional exception). Broadly
speaking, this corresponds to the
setting of a conventional narrative.
Different IF systems and different games written with those systems will implement
this simulated environment to different depths, but there are certain features that
most if not all works of IF share. Firstly, the physical world is generally modelled
as a series of discrete locations known as
rooms.
[4] The totality of rooms in a given
work of IF is often referred to as the
map.
[5] Such rooms could correspond to rooms in a building,
but they need not and frequently do not: a "room" in the IF sense is
just as likely to be a section of path through a forest, or one corner of a large
town square, or a section of meadow-bank overlooking a lake. Conceptually, a room is
that segment of physical space that is immediately accessible to the player
character. The notional size of a room can vary greatly, but is assumed that, with
certain qualifications, the PC can see and hear everything in the room in which he
or she is located unless it is purposely hidden; and can taste, touch or smell
everything in the room unless it is deliberately placed out of reach. The standard
IF convention is that, with one exception to be dealt with below, the movement of
the characters and objects within a room is not normally modelled. It may be that I
would in fact have to cross a large study to take a book off the shelf, but this
detail is generally ignored in IF; it is assumed that the PC (and any NPCs) will
move around within a room as necessary without being explicitly commanded to, and
such internal movements will not normally be reported, unless the game author
explicitly wishes to mention them for artistic effect. Thus few games bother to
implement commands such as WALK OVER TO THE TABLE or APPROACH THE BOOKCASE, since
they would generally be superfluous.
[6]
It is perfectly possible for a complete work of IF to take place within a single
room, and some do, but it is more normal for a game to contain multiple rooms and
for the PC (and possibly the NPCs as well) to move around between them. By far the
most normal convention is for movement commands to be given in terms of the eight
principal compass directions together with UP, DOWN, IN and OUT. This should understood as a convention of the medium, not as a pretense that the PC in fact
carries an infallible compass in his or her head; experience has shown that in
practice this is generally the most convenient way for a player to communicate
movement intentions to the parser, not least because movement commands can be
abbreviated to N, SW and the like. But other styles of movement command such as GO
THROUGH RED DOOR and ENTER THE BIG HOUSE are also common. Less common, but also
possible are commands to go to a specific location, such as GO TO THE KITCHEN.
In the normal IF world model, rooms are populated with objects. These
may be portable objects that the PC can pick up and carry around, or non-portable
objects such as trees and houses and heavy furniture that remain fixed in place.
Some objects may play an integral part in the game, while others may only be
scenery. Standard IF world models also implement a containment
hierarchy for objects. Everything currently in the game must be contained in
a room, but within rooms some objects may contain other objects. The most commonly
implemented containment relations are inside (for containers like
boxes, desk drawers, pockets and sacks) and on top of (for supporters
like desks, tables and trays). Some objects, such as chairs, beds and platforms, may
also contain the PC and other characters; these constitute the exception to the rule
that movement within rooms is not normally modelled, since movement in and out of
containers like beds and chairs normally is dealt with explicitly.
Although most objects in a game are normally inanimate (as are most objects we
commonly interact with in the real world), some may be designed to represent animate
objects such as cats and cows or even people (or quasi-animate objects such as
robots and talking computers). Clearly such objects – especially people – are a good
deal more complicated to implement well.
The earliest game of this type was principally a simulation of the Bedquilt/Flint
Mammoth cave network created by Will Crowther, originally as an amusement for his
daughters ([
Montfort 2003a, 85–93]; [
Nelson 2001, 342–45];
also described
elsewhere
in this issue]. It was subsequently expanded by Don Woods with a number of
additional puzzles and treasures, and has continued to be expanded in many versions
since, being readily available, generally under the name "Adventure" but sometimes called "Colossal
Cave", "Colossal Adventure" or a number of other
names.
[7] This may be one reason why works of IF
are also known as "text adventures" (even when the plot may involve
little that resembles adventuring in any conventional sense).
Adventure’s parser was originally written in FORTRAN, and was primitive by modern
standards: it was a "two-word" parser since the most complex commands
it could understand were in the form of an imperative verb and a single noun. The
game had little narrative plot, being mainly a treasure hunt, but the fact that,
unlike many of its successors and imitators, it was based on a real cave system by
an author who knew it well gives it a certain enduring charm.
The most significant successor and imitator of "Adventure"
was a game first called "Dungeon" and then "Zork", originally written on a university mainframe (at
MIT, beginning in May 1977) [
Montfort 2003a, 97]. Although "Zork" was arguably even more of a puzzle-driven
treasure-hunt set in a less coherent and authentic world that "Adventure", it did achieve a more sophisticated parser capable of
two-object commands (such as PUT BALL IN BUCKET or HIT TROLL WITH SWORD). Of even
more significance is that in June 1979 the authors of the original Zork went on to
found a company called Infocom, which proved highly successful in writing and
marketing text adventures, or what it came to call interactive fiction [
Montfort 2003a, 125].
[8] Not only did Infocom establish the
conventions that IF still largely follows today, it also showed that the medium was
capable of far more than cave-crawling treasure-hunts.
Infocom (and other companies like it) made a great success of interactive fiction in
the 1980s, but as home computers became more powerful and ever more capable of
displaying good graphics, text-based games fell out of favour with computer gamers
who could be offered much more visually appealing graphical video-games instead. But
while interactive fiction largely fell out of sight, it did not die, but continued
to develop in the hands of enthusiastic amateurs.
[9]
It is possible to write a work of interactive fiction from scratch in a
general-purpose programming language such as Basic, C#, or Pascal, but it is
extremely inadvisable to do so unless your primary aim is to practice programming in
one of those languages. Implementing a robust parser and world model is a decidedly
non-trivial task, and any case IF is best served by a domain-specific language.
Systems for authoring IF had been available for some time, but amateur IF received a
considerable boost in the early 1990s from the release first of Mike Roberts’s TADS
(Text Adventure Design System), and then Inform, created by Oxford mathematician
Graham Nelson.
These systems comprise special-purpose programming languages (TADS, for example, is
quite similar to C), together with a library (usually written in the same language)
providing a standard parser and world model (which can then be extended or modified
to a greater or lesser extent in the game author’s own code). They may also contain
additional tools such as an integrated development environment or a debugger. The
compilers for these languages typically output, not a native executable, but a
byte-code file designed for running in a virtual machine on a program called an
"interpreter" (similar to the way a Java compiler produces
byte-code to run on a Java Virtual Machine).
[10] This allows games written in TADS, Inform and similar IF languages to
run on any system for which the appropriate interpreter has been written.
Inform had two great advantages when it was first released: first, it was free, at a
time when Mike Roberts still charged for TADS (though it has now been available free
for many years),
[11] and second, it compiled to the same format
(known as the Z-machine) as the much-loved Infocom games.
[12] With these tools it became
possible for amateur IF enthusiasts to write games as good as or even better than
those produced by Infocom and its competitors (which is not to say that the systems
have not also been used to produce a glut of games that are far worse). 2006 saw the
release of the latest version of both of these authoring systems: Inform 7 (still in
beta) and TADS 3 (finally out of beta after several years).
[13] Inform 7 is an experiment in a
natural-language style of programming that is proving attractive to many potential
authors who would not feel so comfortable with conventional coding.
[14] TADS 3 is more like
a conventional programming language (much of its syntax is identical to
C),
[15] but incorporates the most sophisticated parser and world model yet
seen in IF, as well as providing the best toolset to date for the implementation of
NPCs. Between them, Inform 7 and TADS 3 provide the IF author with a choice of
state-of-the-art development tools that take radically different
approaches.
[16]
Amateurs writing for other amateurs have perhaps felt freer to innovate and
experiment, and one trend has been an increasing appreciation and ambition for
story-driven as opposed to puzzle-driven IF. That is not to say that well-made
puzzle games do not continue to be appreciated – they clearly are
[17] – but there has
also been increasing interest in the narrative possibilities of IF. There have also
been developments in the generally accepted conventions of the medium. Back in the
1980s, and even the early 1990s, IF games often contained huge illogical mazes and
puzzles that were frequently arbitrary and unfair, as well as all too often allowing
a player to continue unknowingly with a game long after it had been put into an
un-winnable state. Such things are now usually frowned upon. The modern ideals are
that puzzles should be properly and fairly clued, and fully integrated into the
narrative structure of the game (although this can often be hard to achieve), that
the player should be given fair warning if the game gets into an un-winnable state,
and that no game should contain a maze without a very good reason for it indeed (and
even then it had better be a very original kind of maze). Again, modern standards
are much more demanding on depth of implementation. If a room description mentions
striped wallpaper then the parser had better recognize striped wallpaper if the
player tries to refer to it. It may be acceptable for the parser to respond with
"The striped wallpaper is not important" if the
wallpaper is indeed pure scenery, but it looks very clumsy if, having told the
player that the room is decorated with striped wallpaper, the game responds with
"You see no such thing" when the player tries to
examine it (as would all too often be the case in much "old-school"
IF and all too much poorly-implemented modern IF). It is better still if a
description of the wallpaper is provided in response to "X
WALLPAPER" (i.e. EXAMINE WALLPAPER), even if the "not
important" message is used in response to any other command involving the
wallpaper; this kind of detail can make the difference between immersion in the
story world and the feeling that, after all, you are merely interacting with a
computer program.
[18]
These modern expectations raise a further pair of issues, namely the roles of room
descriptions and puzzles. In conventional (or "static") fiction a
description of a location may be used,
inter alia, to paint a
picture in the eye of the reader, or to evoke a mood, or to provide information
needed to understand the plot. All these functions apply to room descriptions in
interactive fiction, but with additional constraints. First, whereas the author of a
novel or short story has considerable latitude in choosing the length of any
description (provided it is not so long as to kill the narrative momentum), an IF
author has to be economical; the text of a room description (or any other kind of
output) will appear on a scrolling screen between one command prompt and the next,
and for that reason will appear too long if it amounts to more than half a dozen
lines of text or so. Second, there are certain pieces of information that a room
description must convey to the player, not least the direction of the available
exits from the current location. Third, the description ideally needs to be so
arranged as to draw the player’s attention to items that merit further investigation
(say, the large desk in the corner, in which resides an important letter from the
PC’s husband’s lover) rather than to items that are purely decorative (such as an
ornamental vase on the mantelpiece). To achieve all these goals while writing good
prose is not always easy; one technique is to minimize the kind of extraneous detail
that might typically be used for scene-setting in static fiction.
[19]
It is possible to write IF that is virtually puzzleless, but puzzles can play an
important part even in IF that aims to be more literary than ludic.
[20] What exactly constitutes a puzzle is a little
hard to define; in essence it is a task that the player has to perform or an
obstacle he or she has to overcome where the necessary sequence of actions is not
immediately obvious but requires some thought or experimentation to arrive at; but
what may seem immediately obvious to one player may seem more obscure to another.
However defined, puzzles have a number of important uses. First, they may simply be
integral to the plot, since the game may describe a situation in which the
protagonist would naturally have to overcome obstacles or achieve difficult tasks of
this type (for example, if the protagonist is a detective investigating a murder).
Second, puzzles are one of the main devices in IF for creating a sense of tension
and opposition, without which any narrative is liable to feel dull and slack. Third,
they can help pace and direct the plot. In static fiction, authors have complete
control over the course of events and can accordingly structure their narrative to
suit their plot. Authors of IF surrender much of this control to the player, who
controls the actions of the protagonist and thus the course of events. Putting
strategically placed obstacles in the path of the protagonist is a means of
regaining a measure of authorial control; for example certain parts of the map can
be closed off until certain tasks have been performed (paradigmatically, the PC
cannot pass through the locked door until he or she has discovered the key), or the
accomplishment of certain tasks can trigger certain key events. Third, placing
obstacles in the path of the PC can deepen the players’ involvement in the narrative
by forcing them to think about the PC’s situation and come up with a solution.
Players are made to identify more closely with the actions of the protagonist if
they have directed those actions themselves, and can feel a considerable sense of
satisfaction at being able to overcome a difficult obstacle. But puzzles can also
misfire in a number of ways. If they are too hard they can bring the narrative to a
standstill as the player thrashes about in increasing frustration trying to find a
solution. If they seem arbitrary, insufficiently well clued, or otherwise unfair
they can simply provoke annoyance. Conversely, if they seem too easy there is little
satisfaction at solving them, and a sense of tedium may set in if the player is
forced to go through a series of routine actions (find next key, unlock next
door).
[21]
Puzzles are not the only way to achieve some of these effects; for example, it would
be possible to present the player with a series of choices that were not so much
puzzles as dilemmas, or to write a puzzleless simulation,
[22]
or a game that works in some other way, but this can be difficult to bring off. If a
game presents players with more or less the same linear narrative without offering
any significant challenges, it can all too easily create the feeling that one may as
well be pressing the space bar between reading chunks of text, and that the story
might better have been presented as conventional static fiction.
What drives the narrative in most static fiction is the interaction between the
(normally human) characters, but this is the hardest thing to do well in interactive
fiction, particularly when it comes to representing the subtleties of human
relationships. Many NPCs in IF turn out to be little more than elaborate puzzles or
talking robots. Examples of the first category might be someone I have to get out of
the way so I can see what’s in his desk or the bouncer who won’t let me past the
door. The second category is part of the wider reason it is so difficult to produce
lifelike NPCs in IF, namely the difficulty of producing realistic dialogue in the
medium.
Authors of static fiction have complete control over what their characters say, with
all the nuances that may imply for the relationships between them. Authors of IF
surrender control of speech as well as action to their players, but whereas a good
modern IF parser can cope very well with interpreting commands directed at physical
action, the same is not so true of speech commands. The reason is quite
straightforward: whereas there is only a fairly limited range of physical actions a
PC might sensibly attempt at any one time, there is no such limit to what he or she
might sensibly say, but the technology to make sense of any textual input and
provide a good response simply does not exist, and would in any case be a move away
from interactive fiction to artificial intelligence (at least as things are now).
Attempting fake AI in NPC responses (for example, by getting the parser to look out
for certain keywords) is nearly always a bad idea, since it is almost bound to be
given away by incongruous responses sooner or later. The only practical solution
with existing IF parser technology is to put a drastic limit on the range and syntax
of conversational commands, and to program a finite range of suitable NPC responses,
together with a range of totally non-committal "default" responses
for topics not otherwise catered for.
A number of approaches are possible within these limitations.
[23] The
simplest is to restrict conversational commands to TALK TO X, and then respond with
canned conversation; this can work well enough in certain contexts, and does retain
maximum authorial control over the course of conversations, but greatly restricts
players’ freedom of choice with concomitant loss of interactivity. Another option is
to have TALK TO X respond with a menu of things the PC can say (possibly linked with
a second command to switch topic); again this can work reasonably well, but is not
without its disadvantages, the most prominent of which are first that switching to a
restricted-choice menu interface may not sit well with the open-ended command line
interface used for every other kind of player input, and second that when players
are presented with a menu interface for conversations the temptation is to try to
navigate them like a kind of conversational maze, which risks breaking immersion in
the narrative.
Perhaps the most commonly used conversation system, and that most frequently provided
as standard in many IF authoring system, is the ASK/TELL system. This allows players
to type commands of the form ASK BOB ABOUT THE LETTER or TELL JILL ABOUT JANE, where
what follows "ABOUT" is a topic to which the NPC may have
a programmed response (the ASK/TELL system usually also allows SHOW SOMETHING TO
SOMEONE and GIVE SOMETHING TO SOMEONE and often ASK SOMEONE FOR SOMETHING). The
advantages of this system is that it allows a form of user input congruent with the
user interface used for all other commands, preserves the illusion of player
freedom, but makes it reasonably possible for the author to provide suitable
responses, at least to the most significant topics (the others can then be fielded
with a non-commital response such as "Let’s talk about that some
other time" or "Bob pretends not to hear
you"). The disadvantages are first that the NPC can all too easily end up
resembling a talking robot more than a believable human being (for example if the
command ASK BOB ABOUT LETTER repeatedly provokes the response, "
'It’s from Jill'; he tells you, 'she’s left me to run off with
Jack!'
"), and second that the system allows little or no control over
what precisely is asked or told: if I issue the command ASK BOB ABOUT LETTER do I
want to ask Bob who the letter is from, or what it says, or when he received it? If
I type the command TELL JILL ABOUT JANE do I want to tell Jill that Jane is
pregnant, or that I’m in love with her, or that she’s emigrated to Australia? In
particular, the only dimension of human conversation it copes with is the exchange
of information; it is thus quite incapable of modelling, say, a developing
relationship (whether of affection or enmity) in any realistic way.
One of the great achievements of TADS 3 is that it extends the ASK/TELL system in a
number of ways that greatly mitigate these limitations. For example, it provides
tools for varying NPCs’ responses in accordance with what has been said before, and
for threading conversations in a more realistic manner, allowing a greater range of
possible responses that just ASK or TELL at critical points in the dialogue. It also
encourages authors to write both halves of a conversational exchange, which
generally makes the dialogue read much better.
[24] It is not
that it is impossible to do these things in other IF languages, but rather that TADS
3 provides by far the best set of tools as standard (and also makes it reasonably
easy for more ambitious authors to extend them as desired). This is one reason why
TADS 3 was chosen for "All Hope Abandon" (as well as a
number of other games I have written).
The difficulty of implementing life-like NPCs is perhaps one of the major differences
between IF and conventional static fiction; it can certainly restrict the kind of
story that can be told well in the medium, since it is far harder to produce a game
involving the emotional interaction of characters (such as a love story) than one
focusing mainly on the gathering and exchange of information (a detective story or
spy story, for example). That is not to say that IF necessarily lacks emotional
impact, but this must often be achieved by other means, and it would be fair to say
that the implementation of convincing NPCs is one area in which there is currently
vast scope for experimentation. But the more fundamental difference between static
and interactive fiction is that the latter is interactive, and requires a particular
kind of input from the reader to advance the story. This is not to say that the
reader of static fiction is wholly passive, as reader-response criticism in
particular emphasizes, but IF does raise reader participation to a greater level; it
also both operates under different constraints and offers different opportunities
from static fiction.
[25]
Implementing the Player Character also presents its own challenges. In early works
such as "Adventure" and "Zork"
this was not an issue, since the PC was usually anonymous with no characteristics
beyond the ability to act as the player’s eyes and hands in the game. Once authors
became more interested in the narrative possibilities of IF this changed, however;
PCs needed to become more specific, of a determinate gender, with particular
characteristics and a history of their own, more like the protagonists of
conventional figure than the convenient puppets of the early games. This then raises
the possibility that the PC’s motivations might clash with those of the player who
is supposed to be controlling his or her actions. In such a case the game author has
to choose between allowing the action at the cost of the integrity of the character,
or disallowing the action at the cost of restricting player freedom. This potential
conflict is normally resolved by means of some kind of compromise: typically a PC
might be motivationally restricted from committing murder or suicide while being far
less scrupulous about stealing (since players of IF quickly develop the kleptomaniac
strategy of taking anything that isn’t nailed down on the assumption that it will
probably come in useful later in the game). It is in any case impossible to satisfy
all players, since some will always complain if the PC won’t do their bidding
("but Bob is such an irritating character that I
want to punch him on the jaw", while others will complain if
they can make their PC act too obviously out of character ("my
PC is meant to be a genteel elderly spinster who would never punch
anyone on the jaw, however irritating she found him!"); nevertheless,
some kind of reasonable compromise seems to satisfy most players most of the time.
Less easy to negotiate is the discrepancy that can arise between what the player
knows and what the player character supposedly knows. This can work both ways.
Someone playing a game for the second or subsequent time almost certainly starts out
knowing more than the PC knows at the start of the game, and this can create
problems when the player wants to put that additional knowledge to use. Before the
PC has been introduced to Mrs. Prancealot he logically cannot know that she
is Mrs. Prancealot, but the player may try to refer to her as Mrs.
Prancealot before the introduction takes place and become irritated either because
the parser allows the use of the name that the PC cannot yet know or because it
refuses to recognize the name that the player knows perfectly well. Or, to take
another example, if a key has been dropped under a sofa, should second time players
be forced to issue a LOOK UNDER SOFA command in order to be allowed to refer to a
key they already know to be there? Some players may find such a restriction irksome,
while others may feel it unreasonable that the PC can pick up a key from under the
sofa before he has any good reason to suspect its presence there.
Conversely, the PC may well know things the player (especially the first time player)
does not. Such knowledge may be relatively trivial, such as the PC’s knowledge of
his or her own locality, which the player has to discover by exploration (this can
usually be handled by writing room descriptions that emphasize the PC’s familiarity
with the locations visited). But it may be something rather more complex, such as
the specialist knowledge the PC ought to possess in his or her persona as
safe-cracker, starship captain, or (as in the example about to be discussed)
scholar. This can be particularly tricky if it results in the player fumbling to
perform tasks the PC ought to be able to manage in his or her sleep, or if the PC’s
specialist knowledge is particularly relevant to understanding the puzzles and other
plot elements, as turned out to be the case in "All Hope
Abandon".
[26]
All Hope Abandon
The particular example of IF to be discussed here is one of my own works, "All Hope Abandon". The reason this game may be of interest
to readers of Digital Humanities Quarterly is that it
combines relatively a new digital medium (interactive fiction) with a very
traditional academic discipline (Biblical Studies). I shall start by explaining what
the game is about, and then go on to discuss some of the design goals and
implementation challenges.
The game opens with the protagonist, Dr. William Fisher, listening to a particularly dire lecture at a New Testament conference. Since our discussion of interactive
fiction has been fairly abstract up to now, it may be helpful to show a sample
transcript of the first few turns by way of illustration (lines beginning > show
player commands):
The conference organizers must have been really scraping the barrel when they
invited Professor Wortschlachter as a keynote speaker. Until you saw the
conference programme you’d never heard of him, and from what the handout has to
say about him you can see why. You’re subjecting yourself to his lecture through
a general sense of obligation (or, at least, fear of appearing less enthusiastic
than the other delegates), but your expectations are not high. So far,
Wortschlachter has triumphantly fallen short of them.
Lecture Theatre (sitting on a plain wooden chair)
Facing you is the podium, from which the wretched Professor Wortschlachter is
busily delivering his lecture. Facing the podium are row upon row of hard wooden
chairs, about a dozen in front of you, and as many again behind. Over to your
left a series of windows, partly obscured by blinds, look out on a relentlessly
grey day, while the main exit is out of sight behind you. The walls have been
covered with plain strips of pine that match the floor, but are otherwise
undecorated except for the occasional fading poster.
Professor Wortschlachter is standing on the podium, delivering his lecture.
>X ME
You’re in your early thirties, but you firmly believe that you look younger. In
your more honest moments, however, you have to admit that you’re not exactly as
fit as you might be. You are dressed quite formally for the occasion, in a dark
jacket and tie.
Professor Wortschlachter peers down at his notes, grasps the top of the lectern,
and announces, "As you all know, our pericope, Mark 16.1-8 is one that The Acts of Jesus prints in heavy black type,
indicating that the Jesus Seminar are quite clear that the account is
utterly unhistorical. We can assume that a first-century Jesus Seminar would
have voted the same way, at once recognizing the midrashic intertexture of
this text and not for a moment is taking it for a putative historical
report."
You wonder briefly at this astonishing leap of logic, but Wortschlachter ploughs
relentlessly on, leaving minimal time for critical assessment.
>I
You are carrying a conference handout, and you’re wearing a tie, a name badge,
and a dark jacket.
"Since we can assume that any literalist reading of the empty tomb story can be
instantly deconstructed", Professor Wortschlachter drones on, "we can
progress to the correct identification of its Sitz im
Leben in the proper religionsgeschichtlichen
context."
Bullshit! you think, convinced even more than ever now that
Wortschlachter is just throwing in a random mish-mash of technical language in
order to disguise his total lack of methodological rigour.
>READ HANDOUT
It reads:
Our Special Guest Speaker, Herr Doktor Doktor Professor Karlheinz
Wortschlachter is delivering today’s keynote address on the exciting topic
of "Rolling Away the Misconceived Stone: Structural
Semiotic Signification in Mark 16:1-8"
The organizers particularly request all Conference delegates to attend this
afternoon’s plenary session at which this internationally renowned scholar
will reveal his latest thinking on this exciting and vital topic.
Dr. Wortschlachter is Professor of New Testament History and Exegesis at the
Protestant Faculty of the University of Wirrstadt. He is the author of
several important books, including the renowned Deconstructing the Deconstruction of Structurally Symbolic
Social-Scientific Semiotic Signification in Second Temple
Judaeo-Christianity. This is the first time we have been
fortunate enough to have him address a meeting of the Pan-Atlantic New
Testament Society.
"... but this must include, inter alia its thorough
demythologization in line with the Bultmannian perspective," the
professor grinds on.
At this point your attention starts to wander as you find your eyes attracted to
the blonde woman sitting three rows ahead.
The PC’s attention now wanders as he recalls a brief encounter he had with an
attractive female delegate, Felicity Hope, at breakfast that morning. His attention
soon returns to the lecture, but not long thereafter he suffers a heart attack, and
the bulk of the game takes place in his subsequent near-death experience.
How exactly this experience is to be interpreted (for example, as an objective
depiction of an after-life, or as a purely subjective dream-like experience) is left
up to the player to decide. In creating this environment I thought of it as
mythological, and as containing both subjective and objective elements. It is
closely connected to the theme of the preceding lecture, in that the Empty Tomb
story recurs in various guises as a leitmotiv, as does the PC’s attraction to
Felicity Hope. On the other hand what the PC does in this segment of the game can
have real world consequences, in particular whether he returns to life or ends up in
ultimate frustration or oblivion.
This mythological section is structured in two main halves surrounded by a prologue
and epilogue. The prologue effectively allows players to start to get their bearings
in this strange environment. There they will discover that a great chasm separates
the PC from a distant golden glow that looks like it might be a city of the blessed.
On this side of the chasm is the gate of hell, bearing a sign saying that hell has
been closed for demythologization. A workdemon is busily chipping away at the
inscription over the gate, but has so far only manage to obliterate the final letter
of "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here" (thereby creating
a nice double entendre for those who spot it). It turns out that the only way to
progress is to go through hell, via another entrance (the debts to Dante’s Divine Comedy will be obvious).
The first main section begins once the player has found out how to get into hell. The
PC soon arrives in a Victorian gallery with a choice of routes labelled "Via Antiqua" and "Via Moderna".
I originally intended to force the player to take the Via Moderna, which pokes
gentle (or not-so-gentle) fun at various aspects of twentieth-century New Testament
scholarship (appropriate to the PC’s profession). I soon felt, however, that this
left the Via Antiqua as a rather pointless digression, so I decided to add an
alternative route through that as well, in which the PC has to overcome the
temptations of an alluring female demoness (a sort of demonic counterpart to
Felicity Hope). Both routes eventually converge at the same barrier (it would be too
much of a spoiler to be more specific) that the PC has to overcome to proceed to the
second main section of his near-death experience.
This second section is intended to be a recapitulation of the main lines of New
Testament eschatology. Symbolically speaking the PC must past through the
crucifixion and the Empty Tomb and then play an apocalyptic game of chess against an
opponent who starts out as Pontius Pilate but is soon replaced with a composite
Roman emperor (representing an amalgam of all the emperors from Augustus to
Domitian). The chess game is played out with somewhat unconventional pieces and is
meant to reflect, first the events leading up to the Jewish war of 66-70 CE, and
then aspects of the apocalyptic scenarios of Revelation and 4 Ezra. If the PC loses
the game he loses his soul; if he wins he can pass on to the next stage. In neither
case is the game played much like an ordinary game of chess.
Thereafter the player character finds a sort of reverse Eden, in which the serpent is
helpful and in fact prevents the PC from taking the forbidden fruit (the idea is to
represent an
Urzeit – Endzeit typology
[27] and the reversal of the fall through the acts of redemption),
but realizes that this is not where he is meant to stay. Instead he must rescue
Felicity Hope from the swamp in which she is mired (and which is clearly meant to
represent Professor Wortschlachter’s lecture). Escape from this region leads to the
epilogue of the near-death experience. Between them Felicity Hope and the PC
discover a way to cross the chasm to reach the distant golden glow, but only one of
them can cross. The player must decide whether it is the PC or Felicity who crosses
the chasm, and on that decision rests the ultimate fate of the PC. If the right
choice is made, the PC wakes up in a hospital bed with the real Felicity Hope at his
side; otherwise he is eternally lost.
In the most general terms, my design goals were to combine my interest in Biblical
Studies with my interest in interactive fiction in a game that contained a
substantial surreal (or at least, non-real-world) segment that would give some sense
of what it might be like to inhabit one interpretation of the Christian
symbolic/mythological universe. I also wanted to poke fun at some aspects of New
Testament scholarship of the last hundred years, while unobtrusively informing
players about it. The game also had to be entertaining and engaging to play, given
that my target audience would be fellow IF-enthusiasts rather than fellow New
Testament scholars. It therefore had to conform to the conventions and expectations
of the medium, and it seemed advisable to include elements such as puzzles that
would hopefully prove amusing and accessible to all players, regardless of their
background knowledge, on the basis of information provided in the game. It was quite
emphatically not meant to preach to the player.
The game seems to have achieved mixed success in relation to those goals. On the
positive side "All Hope Abandon" received nominations in
six out of the ten categories for Xyzzy awards (the Oscars of IF, named after a
magic word featured in "Adventure") for games released in
2005, although it failed to win the prize in any of them (see
http://wurb.com/if/award/3#518).
In general it also seems to have been well received; the fact that it does not try
to preach to the player was generally appreciated, and it received a number of
broadly favourable reviews.
[28] On the other hand the overarching scholarly
and mythological structures that were intended to lend coherence to the two main
afterlife sections were clearly missed by some players, to whom these sections then
appeared to be a somewhat rag-bag collection of puzzles [
Shiovitz 2004a].
This underlines the main design challenge I faced: the huge gap between PC and player
knowledge. Although this can be an issue in any work of IF, in this case the problem
was acute: my PC was a New Testament scholar who could be expected to have a
thorough knowledge not only of the biblical text and related ancient texts, but also
of the contemporary scholarly debate surrounding them. My target audience might have
none of this knowledge, and it became apparent in the course of beta-testing and
subsequent player feedback that many players did not possess even the most
elementary knowledge of the biblical stories presupposed and alluded to in the game.
My first attempt at meeting this problem was to add footnotes to responses I thought
might be a little obscure.
[29] But I
quickly came to the conclusion that this solution was both cumbersome and obtrusive.
Players who wished to refresh their memories of what a footnote said on a particular
topic would have to remember the number of the footnote in which the topic was
discussed (or else scroll back to find it), and there were so many responses that
potentially needed further explanation that the game was beginning to resemble an
article in an academic journal; the too frequent appearance of footnote markers
would make the game look too forbidding.
I therefore decided to scrap the footnotes and employ a different approach:
implementing a THINK ABOUT command. If the game mentioned something that might be
obscure to the player, such as the Synoptic Problem or Q, or even Moses or the Empty
Tomb, the player could simply type, say, THINK ABOUT Q, to tap into the player
character’s specialist knowledge (and opinions). The advantage of this approach is
that it never thrusts itself on players’ attention; there is seldom any need to
think about anything in the game,
[30] and players can use the THINK ABOUT
command when and only when their curiosity is roused. This approach also opens up
further educational potential for the game; those players can learn quite a lot
about the biblical text and scholarly approaches to it if they are so minded, but
none is compelled to do so, though hopefully the context of the game makes it an
enjoyable way to learn.
Many of the other challenges and design decisions affecting "All
Hope Abandon" were of a kind common to many works of IF, such a pacing
and puzzle design. The key decision made in the design of "All
Hope Abandon" was to link narrative progress with geographical progress;
the narrative advances through the near-death experience as the player character
advances through the map. This in turns means that most of all the puzzles are
"gating" puzzles, obstacles that need to be overcome in order to
advance to the next set of map locations. All this was part of the design from the
beginning. A subsidiary aspect of this design included making the gating puzzles
irreversible at crucial points, limiting the ability of the PC to backtrack and so
driving the narrative forwards. Linked to this were puzzles that forced the PC to
part with all of his inventory (the items carried) at various points, thus
preventing an accumulation of an ever-growing stack of objects that were no longer
useful.
[31]
Apart from a number of purely technical issues, the other main design challenge was
the implementation of the NPCs. Here, the setting of the main part of the game in a
mythological landscape greatly helped; since the setting was clearly not a
real-world one, and many of the NPCs were so strange (they included a demon, a
demoness, a talking crow and a talking serpent) that it would not be particularly
jarring if some of their responses were a little odd; on the contrary, oddity is
only to be expected. "All Hope Abandon" does make full
use of the conversational tools provided by TADS 3, but its use of them is less
taxing than it would be in a game set in more realistic world. Moreover, the two
real-world segments right at the beginning and end of the game are so brief that the
PC only has the opportunity to converse with one NPC (Felicity), and then only for
such a short span of time that any unnaturalness in the conversation hardly has a
chance to become apparent.
"All Hope Abandon" breaks no new ground in the matter of
room descriptions, the constraints of supplying adequate information in limited
space remain, but it does add one related feature, the ability of the PC not simply
to LOOK at the current location, but to LOOK in particular directions (such as LOOK
NORTH or LOOK SOUTHEAST). The game then responds with a brief description of what
can be seen in that direction from where the PC is currently located. This probably
turned out to be little more than a gimmick, however, since it would have been too
unwieldy to have supplied any new information to the player by this means. If new
information had been conveyed to the player through such commands, then players
would have been forced to look in every direction in every location to be sure of
not missing anything, and this would rapidly have become intolerably tedious. It
would also have gone against the convention that a normal room description should
supply players with all the information they need (which may include calling
attention to objects they need to examine more closely). The ability to LOOK in
particular directions may have created a slightly deeper sense of immersion for some
players, since the game could at least give a reasonably appropriate response to
such commands, but it is not an experiment I have so far felt like repeating in
subsequent works.
Interactive Fiction and Biblical Text
At first sight interactive fiction, which began life as a species of computer game,
would seem to be a world apart from Biblical Studies (or any other humanities
discipline). It may nevertheless be interesting to reflect on how a work such as
"All Hope Abandon" may be suggestive for relating
these seemingly disparate worlds.
The first point to make is that "All Hope Abandon" makes
no attempt to render the biblical narratives it employs in any straightforward,
realistic manner. It alludes to a number of biblical stories, and full appreciation
of the game probably requires quite a good grasp of the sweep of biblical narrative,
but nowhere does "All Hope Abandon" make a serious
attempt to retell a biblical story. This is partly a recognition of the real
differences between the media of static text and IF; attempts to render existing
stories as IF rarely come off well.
[32]Taking all or part of a
static text like Mark’s Gospel and trying to turn it into IF almost certainly would
not have worked (though a piece of IF loosely inspired by the biblical text could be
a very different matter). For one thing there is an essential mismatch between the
linearity of the narrative in a conventional static text, and the player’s apparent
freedom in a work of IF. This freedom may only be apparent; a skilled IF author can
effectively force players to a predetermined conclusion while creating the illusion
of almost total freedom, but the route to that conclusion cannot be so tightly
controlled as in static fiction (or, if it is, the resulting game will scarcely work
as a piece of IF; players generally object when the game too obviously puts them on
rails). There is no way that an IF author can successfully force a player to follow
the precise sequence of events that appears in a static text, and a well-written
piece of IF has to reckon with the possibility that a player may choose to do
something different from the protagonist of a pre-existing story.
[33]
That said, there are a number of ways in which "All Hope
Abandon" functions similarly to the biblical texts it plays off. The first is
in the employment of intertextuality. For the most part "All
Hope Abandon" uses the biblical text (and other texts) allusively,
occasionally quoting them, sometimes representing aspects of them more or less
closely. This is similar to the way in which many New Testament texts make use of
the Old Testament. Thus, for example, the opening of Luke’s gospel is written in
such a way as to resemble the opening of 1 Samuel, or the opening of Matthew’s
gospel recalls the birth of Moses and a dreaming patriarch named Joseph. Thus, too,
is the way that several of the more spectacular miracle stories operate; the Feeding
of the Five Thousand (Mark 6.30-44 and parallels) resembles a similar feeding
conducted by the prophet Elisha (2 Kings 4.42-44) and is probably meant to recall
the feeding in the wilderness (Exodus 16) as well as the promise of a Davidic
shepherd who would heal and feed his flock (Ezekiel 34). Likewise the Stilling of
the Storm (Mark 4.35) recalls both the story of the storm at sea suffered by Jonah
(Jonah 1) and the song of praise from those who go down to the sea in ships (Psalm
107.23-32). Such examples could be multiplied almost endlessly; they are integral to
the way much of the New Testament (and also quite a bit of the Old Testament)
functions.
[34] To be sure the
New Testament is not only a static text but a sacred one; its employment of
intertextuality is inevitably both different in nature and more serious in intent
from that of any work of IF. Again, the intertextual allusiveness of "All Hope Abandon" is hardly characteristic of IF as a
whole. There are nevertheless similarities in intent insofar as both the New
Testament and "All Hope Abandon" seek to create new
narratives that rely for much of their meaning on earlier sacred texts, and neither
is simply giving a new rendering of an old story.
[35]
A less incidental link between IF and biblical text lies in their common relation to
the riddle. Nick Montfort argues that the riddle is one of the main literary
precursors to interactive fiction in that it is both textual (or at least verbal)
and challenges the reader/hearer to find a solution [
Montfort 2003a, 37–63]. There is also a riddling quality to some biblical texts, not
least the Gospel of Mark, which provides some of the main biblical allusions in
"All Hope Abandon". Mark 4.1-34 to some extent
presents Jesus’ parables as riddles;
[36] to those
outside, everything comes "in parables" so that "seeing they may see and not perceive, and hearing they may hear and not
understand" (Mark 4.10-12, alluding to Isa. 6.9-10). The parable of the
sower is thus made a parable about the reception of parables, but just as seed is
sown in the ground for the purpose of growth, so the concealment of teaching in the
guise of parables is apparently intended for the purpose of revelation: "for nothing is hidden except in order to be made known, nor does
it become hidden but that it might come into the open" (Mark
4.22).
[37] The Markan Jesus continually challenges the disciples to
understand, and they continually fail (Mark 4.10-13, 41; 6.52; 7.17-18; 8.14-21).
Mark’s readers are challenged to do better: "if anyone has ears
to hear, let them hear" (Mark 4.23). The careful reader of Mark’s Gospel
may easily come to the conclusion that this applies, not just to the parables in
Mark, but to the entire narrative: there is clearly much more going on in this
gospel than appears on the surface.
[38]
Hiding something in order that it may come to light is (both literally and
figuratively) a common strategy in writing IF; it is the essence of puzzles that the
player/reader is meant to solve them in order to advance the plot, and perhaps also
the player’s understanding of the work as a whole.
[39] Used well, this
is intended to deepen the player’s involvement in the narrative; to the extent
players are forced to provide their own solutions to the puzzles the story provides
they tend to find themselves taking ownership of the outcomes. The puzzling nature
of the parables (and other material) in Mark’s Gospel seems directed at a similar
(though deeper) end; in particular it seems to be part of Mark’s strategy to bring
his target audience round to the authorial viewpoint (or, at least, the point of
view of the implied author of the Gospel).
[40] Gospel and IF games remain examples
of different media, but there is here a convergence of reader responses, even though
in the case of the Gospel the reader cannot direct the actions of the protagonist.
Insofar as a work of IF is designed so that part of the challenge of the work is to
understand what is going on, that convergence becomes greater (without ever
approximating to identity).
[41]
Although a modern reader cannot affect either the course of events or even the style
of narration in a static text like a gospel, the situation may have been a little
different when the gospels were first written. Like most texts in antiquity (when
literacy was restricted to a small fraction of the population), they would have been
written as scripts for oral performance, not books for private perusal, and some
proportion of the material now incorporated in the gospels probably enjoyed oral
circulation for some time before being committed to writing. Mark’s Gospel is
particularly close to oral storytelling, both in its folksy narrative style (such as
the frequent use of the historic present, parataxis, the word
"immediately", and otherwise non-literary Greek), and in its overall
structure.
[42] Although it is now in fixed textual form, it
was very likely shaped in interaction with its first hearers.
[43] What we have now is a static text, and so a
modern reading does not reproduce this experience of shaping the text (as opposed to
its interpretation), but there is a possible analogy between the way many biblical
texts came into being and the way the textual output of a work of interactive
fiction comes into being, by the co-operation of performer/author and active
listener/reader.
[44]
Finally, IF provides an interesting analogy in the age-old problem of divine
sovereignty and human free will. One obvious place where this surfaces in the
biblical text being used for comparison here is where the Markan Jesus declares that
his betrayer is performing a preordained role in the divine plan, but must
nevertheless bear full responsibility for his actions (Mark 14.21), but the problem
is clearly much wider than that one instance. If the universe has been made by an
omnipotent and omniscient creator, what space is left for human free will? One
useful analogy is that between the author of a novel and the characters within the
novel. Clearly the novelist has full control over the story world he or she creates
and the actions of everyone with it, yet if the characters are not to appear mere
puppets, they must have a certain authenticity and vitality of their own; from the
inner-narrative perspective of the story world they act as free agents. It would not
be appropriate, for example, for a criminal collared by Sherlock Holmes to plead,
"It wasn’t my fault, it was that scoundrel Conan Doyle who
made me do it; he’s writing this story after all." Such an excuse would
involve a confusion of levels, since at the story-level the villain is free and
responsible for his actions.
But useful though that analogy is, it breaks down if pressed too far, for, after all,
novelists do control all the thoughts and actions of all their characters, so that
their characters enjoy no real independence. Interactive fiction provides a more
satisfactory analogy, since here the protagonist is genuinely guided by an
intelligence distinct from that of his or her creator, namely that of the player.
The story-world is still the creation of the author, but the player is genuinely
free to direct the actions of the PC. It is up to the author what difference that
makes; a work of IF can be so structured that the outcome is the same regardless, or
so that the PC’s choices make a real difference. Both design options are intriguing
in this context, the one modelling freedom of action leading to a predetermined
conclusion, and the other a created world in which the author allows choice to
influence outcome.
It is true that the actions open to a player character in a work of interactive
fiction are generally circumscribed, but this is often if not mostly true of real
life as well; in practice we all operate under a number of constraints that limit
our practical options to a finite and frequently quite small number. Reflecting on
the relation of author, player and player character will not solve any age-old
theological problems, but it may provide some new insights for thinking about human
free will in relation to the powers of a creator.