Digital Initiative

WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS ABOUT PERSONA 5, THROUGH AT LEAST SUMMER. Persona 5 has been stuck in my head basically since I played it, which would be literally the day it launched until I’d finished it, taking a couple days off work to do so. It’s been stuck in my head so much that my morning walk to work is mostly paired with P5 OST tunes, and not only because Wake Up, Get Up, Get Out There is a great song with which to start your day. It’s stuck with me, I think, because it’s taught me a bunch of things that I hadn’t previously had a good inroad for. The easy one is the Tokyo subway. At the start of the game, you’re sent to get to school and told “don’t be late!” which automatically triggers some amount of urgency-anxiety in me, especially when I don’t know how to not be late. I got terribly, terribly lost in P5’s initial subway system, and what I found out in the process is that it’s laid out almost exactly like Tokyo subways, including how you navigate them. I’m now used to navigating P5’s subway system, and from folks I know who’ve visited Japan, the parallels are good enough that I might be instantly used to navigating those subways, just through osmosis. It’s an interesting thought, and with any luck I’ll be able to take a trip there and see for myself at some point. More interesting to me, though, is seeing how P5 has quickly and effectively taught me about judging people, and then letting my opinions change. It’s a game where you’re encouraged to make early judgements about people, because it’s a survival trait. P5’s world is not a friendly one, and it’s one where, from the very start, you’re told that not only is someone going to betray you, but that it’s going to be someone close to you. It teaches you not to trust people early on. It then teaches you that if you’re too untrusting and too paranoid, you don’t get close to anyone, and that sometimes those early snap judgements are the right ones. It’s a really impressive series of arcs that twists and turns and leaves me with Thoughts, about the characters, about the portrayals, and honestly about a lot of stuff. The one that sticks in my mind the most is Yusuke/Fox, the artist. He’s not my favorite character in the game, but he’s probably the one I’ve thought about the most. I started out hating him. I didn’t like his introductory arc, I didn’t like what looked and sounded like overt sexual harassment / blackmail towards Ann on his part during that arc, and there really wasn’t any kind of redemptive piece to that arc that made me feel any better about him– he never even apologizes to Ann (nor do any of the other characters, who abet that whole arc, also bothering me). Then he’s a party member. A useful party member, and one who moment-to-moment annoys me less than Ryuji/Skull, but with whom I’ve had a bad start and am still put off by his being a pretty horrible person in his intro. Then we talk, because The Emperor is a useful set of personas and I’m working on social links. Sometimes it’s just because I have nothing better to do that day. I hear about how obsessive he is about his art, how much he delves into tiny details and how frustrated he is when he can’t quite get them right, even (especially!) when he can’t quantify or explain how they’re not right. I watch him struggle for words and just deflate, defeated, and I roll my eyes because I don’t have a lot of sympathy for him. Then we meet Futaba. I get Futaba, I think she’s pretty awesome, and I want to help her with her problems for a variety of reasons, not least of which because she wants to be helped with her problems, and hasn’t had a good onramp for it until now. I’m willing to do what it takes, and engage on her terms, because I (as a person) can relate (to her character). I also notice that she’s really good at talking with Yusuke. They don’t get along, per se, but they communicate with one another incredibly effectively, and Yusuke is like a different person when they’re in the same room. Then Futaba makes an offhanded comment and a theory clicks into place. I get it. I don’t think Yusuke is an asshole. I think he’s somewhere on the autism spectrum. There’s a design in his head that he has trouble communicating, and he’s not great at relating with people, and he gets frustrated when these two things intersect. He’s intensely awkward because he just doesn’t get social cues, but he’s also very smart. He knows he’s bad with people, and is trying to get better at it, and partly doesn’t know how and partly has his own brain working against him. He’s able to look at and imitate people who he views as more socially functional, it’s just that his exposure to those people has been badly skewed over his life. He and Futaba, while they don’t exactly get along, are on a similar wavelength, just by dint of being awkward around other people. They’re both very smart, and both frustrated about not being good communicators, but they can communicate with each other. Flash back to my entire series of interactions with Yusuke at this point, and I realize how consistent this has been. I understand why so many of my dialogue choices have gotten a poor response, and why I feel like I have to work so hard to “get through” to him. I’d been treating him entirely like a different person, because it wasn’t obvious that he wasn’t. This is on me. This is me snap-judging someone (even with evidence, I think his actions during his intro are still pretty crap, even given the ‘doesn’t really understand how to interact with people’ context) and then not giving them a chance. Yusuke’s been trying to open up and I’ve been patronizing him. He’s asking “how do I become better at this” and my answer is “you’re bad at this”, which is something he already knows. The applications of this in my actual life are beyond count. Good communication is a skill, not an inherent trait shared by all people of some level of competence. Like many skills, some people will have a much, much harder time developing them. I’m kind of short– basketball is a skill I am predisposed to have a hard time developing. The same is true of communication for other people. It’s a drum I beat regularly, though usually in the context of management. Good management is a form of good communication, which is a skill, that not everyone has. You’d think I’d have expanded that sphere to this extent, but it took P5 to get me to broaden that sphere. P5 has a lot for me to unpack. It baits me a lot with things, suggesting I make a snap judgement about them, but sometimes proves that those snap judgements are correct. The lesson feels like an interesting balance between making the snap judgements and being open to having them changed, which I think is a lot harder than only doing one or the other.

Long hiatus, back now. A thing about me: it’s an effort for me to talk when I don’t feel like I have something to say (often, even when I do). I usually default to listening. I’ve spent a lot of the last year listening.

When it comes to games, we talk around some topics a lot. An example: games are art. This isn’t really refutable. It honestly wasn’t, ever, but for a solid couple of decades there was a big question mark around that. We’ve moved past that in a big way, and we’re seeing more and more amazing, beautiful, moving things in our games that simply aren’t possible unless it’s widely understood that games are art.

That understanding is important, it unlocks things, it makes people think and inspires them. Modern graffiti wasn’t viewed as an artistic medium for decades, and wasn’t widely accepted for even longer. Now we have Banksy, and massive outdoor city murals, and street art. The frame of expression widened as acceptance did. We’re seeing the same things in games.

This gets me to my original thought– listening and talking around topics. Games are art, indisputably. Games also teach, indisputably. We have an ever-expanding body of research that concludes that games are one of if not the best mechanisms for teaching. We’ve known that games are great for teaching for centuries– Go and Chess are old war games, used to teach strategy. The question becomes not “*can* games teach?” but instead “what are games teaching?”

It’s a thing we talk around a lot. We’ll talk about how well the game teaches us how to play it, how good the tutorial is and whether the progression curve teaches you the skills necessary to keep progressing. We talk about games teaching resource management, and strategy. We’ll laud games that use smaller versions of boss mechanics to prepare you for the boss itself.

What doesn’t come up much is the other stuff games teach us. Assassin’s Creed taught quite a few people how to appreciate classic art. Guitar Hero and Rock Band taught people about classic rock. These aren’t a core part of the game, they don’t help you beat the game, but they’re the parts that can stick with you. In school, no one cares that you’re good at completing worksheets or homework– what those things do is give you skills that stick with you for when you need them. Math class teaches you how to finish math class, but it also teaches you how to balance a budget, how to make estimates, how to think about problems logically, and a variety of other handy life skills. It teaches you how to use a calculator, so you can solve complex problems with one, and teaches you how NOT to use a calculator, so you can tell if the answer the calculator is giving you is likely to be correct or if you’ve put in some errors.

Games teach us all kinds of ancillary things, but we don’t really talk about them much (outside of some flavors of game scholars, hi2y’all if you’re reading this). It’s certainly not a discussion that comes up in the design process. There’s rarely enough space in the usual games-industry development cycle to have those kinds of discussions, much less act on them.

It means that a lot of stuff gets unintentionally taught, lessons that sink in that weren’t ever part of a plan. There’s an parallel to parenting here– the parents I know talk about the things they teach their children, and then the things their children “pick up”. These are the unintentionally taught parts, and games do the same thing.

I want to spend some time over the next few posts trying to put words to the unintentional things I’ve learned from games. It’s a conversation I find interesting, and (as mentioned) not one that comes up a lot. It’s a hard thing to think about, because it forces me to not just read between the lines of the game but also self-analyze and see how I’ve changed.

Might be an interesting experiment, we’ll see!

Long hiatus, back now. A thing about me: it’s an effort for me to talk when I don’t feel like I have something to say (often, even when I do). I usually default to listening. I’ve spent a lot of the last year listening. When it comes to games, we talk around some topics a lot. An example: games are art. This isn’t really refutable. It honestly wasn’t, ever, but for a solid couple of decades there was a big question mark around that. We’ve moved past that in a big way, and we’re seeing more and more amazing, beautiful, moving things in our games that simply aren’t possible unless it’s widely understood that games are art. That understanding is important, it unlocks things, it makes people think and inspires them. Modern graffiti wasn’t viewed as an artistic medium for decades, and wasn’t widely accepted for even longer. Now we have Banksy, and massive outdoor city murals, and street art. The frame of expression widened as acceptance did. We’re seeing the same things in games. This gets me to my original thought– listening and talking around topics. Games are art, indisputably. Games also teach, indisputably. We have an ever-expanding body of research that concludes that games are one of if not the best mechanisms for teaching. We’ve known that games are great for teaching for centuries– Go and Chess are old war games, used to teach strategy. The question becomes not “can games teach?” but instead “what are games teaching?” It’s a thing we talk around a lot. We’ll talk about how well the game teaches us how to play it, how good the tutorial is and whether the progression curve teaches you the skills necessary to keep progressing. We talk about games teaching resource management, and strategy. We’ll laud games that use smaller versions of boss mechanics to prepare you for the boss itself. What doesn’t come up much is the other stuff games teach us. Assassin’s Creed taught quite a few people how to appreciate classic art. Guitar Hero and Rock Band taught people about classic rock. These aren’t a core part of the game, they don’t help you beat the game, but they’re the parts that can stick with you. In school, no one cares that you’re good at completing worksheets or homework– what those things do is give you skills that stick with you for when you need them. Math class teaches you how to finish math class, but it also teaches you how to balance a budget, how to make estimates, how to think about problems logically, and a variety of other handy life skills. It teaches you how to use a calculator, so you can solve complex problems with one, and teaches you how NOT to use a calculator, so you can tell if the answer the calculator is giving you is likely to be correct or if you’ve put in some errors. Games teach us all kinds of ancillary things, but we don’t really talk about them much (outside of some flavors of game scholars, hi2y’all if you’re reading this). It’s certainly not a discussion that comes up in the design process. There’s rarely enough space in the usual games-industry development cycle to have those kinds of discussions, much less act on them. It means that a lot of stuff gets unintentionally taught, lessons that sink in that weren’t ever part of a plan. There’s an parallel to parenting here– the parents I know talk about the things they teach their children, and then the things their children “pick up”. These are the unintentionally taught parts, and games do the same thing. I want to spend some time over the next few posts trying to put words to the unintentional things I’ve learned from games. It’s a conversation I find interesting, and (as mentioned) not one that comes up a lot. It’s a hard thing to think about, because it forces me to not just read between the lines of the game but also self-analyze and see how I’ve changed. Might be an interesting experiment, we’ll see!

Per the title, quite possibly the least meaningful question it is possible to ask about anything. We learn it early, we learn it from everything around us. We obsess over the answer, as if the answer had any significance whatsoever. Spoilers: it never does. In relationships, in business, in politics, in parenting, whether the event in question is good or bad, we ask this question constantly. We’re also really bad at answering it, or of doing anything useful with the answer once we have it. Perhaps we can definitively assign blame, then what? Are those to blame then exiled? Social pariahs? Sometimes. Sometimes we eliminate them in a variety of ways, removing them from “positions where they can continue to do damage”. Oftentimes we seek revenge for their wrongdoings, exacting vengeance in the name of justice as if any data anywhere suggested that was effective. What all of these things do is drive  a desire never to be caught, for even the tiniest mistake. Never be at fault, never be the one to blame. It is how small errors pile up until massive systems come crashing down. It is how those seeking to exploit the system find loopholes and get away with them. It is what makes it ever harder to answer the question “whose fault is this”, because we all know that it will be a Very Bad Time for whoever that person is. What do we gain by this? Do we correct the error by identifying its source? Can we even accurately identify the source, or is that, like many things, more complicated than a simple pointed finger? Does ferreting out those responsible change the past, or adequately ensure that errors won’t happen in the future? Not really. Instead we spin our wheels unproductively, generating acrimony and paranoia to no real end. We get very worked up over the pursuit of this unknown, as if knowing it is an end unto itself. My mother has a question that she poses whenever I or anyone else is getting worked up this way: “How would that be productive?” It’s a question that comes from a lifetime of clinical detachment, a need to separate conscious thought from emotion lest the latter overwhelm you. It can feel heartless; when I confide in her that I’m trying not to have an anxiety attack over my current stress level, she asks what having a panic attack would accomplish. Nothing, obviously, and to the wrong target that would be infuriating. For me it’s a redirection, a shift in focus and a hint at a better question. I get anxious when I ask the question “what is going to happen next?” — it’s not an answerable question and it’s possible to expend a lot of energy trying in vain to find an answer. It’s stressful to pursue unanswerable questions, but “How would that be productive?” hints at a better question: “What would be productive?” At an uncertain time, my mind works to find certainty, and I get anxious if I pursue questions that can’t be answered. Pursuing questions that CAN be answered, ones that add value and are productive, gives me something for my mind to work on and lowers my stress level. For me, it’s a stepped process. I might not be able to answer “What happens next?” and I might not be able to answer the better “What do I do next?” I’ll take that a step deeper, if I don’t know what I should do next, I’ll ask “What can I do next?” Sometimes this isn’t enough, and the next question becomes “How do I find out what I can do next?” If I can’t answer a question, I step down until I get to a question I can answer, then work my way back up. So, “Whose fault is this?” is really two questions. One is “How can we stop this bad thing from happening again?” and the other is “How do I stop feeling bad about this thing that has happened?” The unspoken thought process here is that finding the fault allows us to answer both at once, by “eliminating” the problem. Unfortunately, that’s not how problems are fixed, especially with people. At the very best, it brings up another question: “What do we do with this knowledge?” There’s a different question that I’ve come to prefer: “What do we do next?” It helps us move forward productively, and helps us focus our efforts in a way that bears fruit. It skips the assignation of blame because the followup step to finding fault is inevitably “okay, now what?” which is where we’re getting to anyway. It sacrifices vengeance for forward motion– we will go on and if you are not with us, you will be left behind. It outs your actual saboteurs while allowing those who have made honest mistakes to atone. It is not forgiveness, it is efficiency. Exacting punishment requires resources that would be better spent on forward motion. We are a social species; being left behind is often punishment enough, and exceptions tend to make themselves known. I spend a lot of time now trying to pursue only questions that have productive answers, and determining what those questions are. I want to ask actionable questions, I want to pursue trains of thought that have a tangible effect. It’s called in some circles a “bias for action”– a bias I’ll readily admit to.