mainichi

The Game of Defining RPGs

Note: This is an open letter to Chris Bateman at international hobo. All replies are welcome!

Dear Chris,

Lately I’ve been thinking about how video games are identified as RPGs by different people. I’ve concluded that the identification of RPG video games is a game in and of itself. For example, Craig Stern has a very interesting piece that shares a universal definition for “computer RPG.” As meticulous as Stern is in rejecting and revising various claims, the comment section shows that a definition of an RPG video game is never quite universal. The reason for this seemingly perpetual disagreement relates to your third rule in The Rules of Game Worlds: “No-one plays alone.” Indeed, our understanding of RPG video games are influenced by “design, genre, fiction, and play practices that are sustained by a community.” But “Is it an RPG?” is nowhere near as simple as “Is it a shooter?” The reality is that people will continue to debate RPG genre parameters in video games due to different sentimental experiences.

To borrow from your broad approach to prop theory, our sentimental experiences are props that we use to put games in various contexts, including genre parameters. The original Final Fantasy on the NES was a sentimental prop that I used for most of my life in regard to defining an “RPG video game.” For me, Final Fantasy was not merely a benchmark in terms of design quality for a particular type of game (the RPG); Final Fantasy told me what could be considered an RPG in the first place. There are two sentimental reasons that this was true. First, a close friend of mine introduced Final Fantasy to me as an RPG, and he was the only kid that I knew who played Final Fantasy or even used the term “RPG.” Second, Final Fantasy was unlike any other video game I had played. Because of these two facts, I would go on to dismiss the idea, for instance, that The Legend of Zelda could be considered an RPG. Although I played The Legend of Zelda before playing Final Fantasy, no one introduced the former to me as an RPG. The Legend of Zelda was simply something all NES kids played back in the day.

Other people use the original Final Fantasy as a prop in understanding what a video game must have to some degree in order to be called an RPG. Sentimental experiences with Final Fantasy might differ, but it is a common standard for defining an RPG video game. We definitely don’t play alone — especially not as RPG-defining folk. There are other RPG definers we must fight, such as the people who say The Legend of Zelda is an RPG (nevermind that these people more than likely recognize Final Fantasy as a legitimate RPG!). Typically, when we debate what is or isn’t an RPG, we come as sentimental outsiders. But really, all we’re doing is debating other people with sentimental props. We’re not that different.

The funny thing about this RPG-defining game is that many of the Final Fantasy vs. The Legend of Zelda gamers understand RPGs mostly within the context of video games. They arguably “know less about RPGs” than those who started with the original tabletop RPG, Dungeons & Dragons. If I understand prop theory correctly, D&D people might experience RPG video games much differently than me, as they bring their personal experiences from that historically important game into the equation. Perhaps a historical perspective might argue that they, having played the original tabletop RPG, should have the final word on what constitutes an RPG video game.

Nonetheless, I’ve written two pieces — one about Mainichi and one about Actual Sunlight — that argue for a new type of RPG: the “unsentimental RPG.” Notice that this term differs from terms like “action RPG” or “strategy RPG,” which emphasize mechanical differences in combat and linkages to broad genres. My goal with the “unsentimental RPG” term is to challenge the idea that an RPG, by definition, must lean on our sentimental understandings — our individual and community props. I see value in this argument: games like Mainichi and Actual Sunlight can inject new sociological meaning into “role playing.”

I think an easy way to understand the potential sociological value of “role playing” is to look at the example of John Howard Griffin, who wrote the groundbreaking Black Like Me. Griffin, a white journalist, artificially changed the pigmentation of his skin to pass as black, with the idea to see how his place in society would change. People, even those who knew him, treated Griffin differently when he looked like a black man. Black Like Me explored uncomfortable social realities, and Griffin didn’t merely undergo stress during his experience — the threats his family received after the book’s publication drove him to Mexico for safety. By daring to role-play (or role-take?) in real life, Griffin revealed and dealt with the consequences of social power.

A game like Mainichi or Actual Sunlight allows us to see social reality from another perspective without the danger of Griffin’s real-world journalism. But these games aren’t simply stories about differential power in the real world; they comment on the power structure of RPGs and how we define RPGs — a power structure that, if not oppressive, is limiting in its sentimentality.

Perhaps I am wrong to call Mainichi and Actual Sunlight RPGs. Perhaps they deserve a different term, but I am convinced they must be called something in regard to “roles,” because they’re precisely about the roles we play in defining reality, even on that less important scale of defining RPG video games. I also believe calling these games “interactive fiction” is a joke. “Interactive fiction” is already muddy enough when it comes to text-based games, so the term doesn’t clearly describe an avatar-based game that resembles Final Fantasy during a series of stop-and-chats in a town.

In an interview with First Person Scholar, you mention the importance of nurturing “pioneering spirits” in video games. This raises an important question: how does one trumpet “pioneering spirits” in RPGs without sounding like one is playing alone?

Sincerely,

Jed Pressgrove

Mainichi: An Unsentimental RPG

by Jed Pressgrove

The title screen of Mainichi recalls the history of Japanese RPGs. Instantly sentimental music is a trick that almost every JRPG plays (even moodier ones like Chrono Cross). Once you move past Mainichi’s title screen, that decades-long thread is lost. Enter a world where JRPG music doesn’t exist.

Mainichi’s rejection of sentimental music is partly why Craig Stern wrote “Mainichi is not an RPG,” a statement that spends too much thought on what RPGs have been rather than on what they can be. Mainichi is a minimalist RPG and demonstrates how one can “role-play” outside of the sentimental model. The game’s sociological approach also contrasts with the sentimentality of many western RPGs — the promise of character creation mostly reflects a colorblind and genderless fantasy.

Developer Mattie Brice uses a Groundhog Day narrative structure to share her emotional struggle as a trans woman. The game’s purpose is no secret, but it does present a more passive attitude than either Anna Anthropy’s dys4ia or Devi Ever’s Grand Titons.  The hurtful messages you receive in Mainichi are influenced by that RPG standby: equipment. The importance of appearance in Mainichi makes even the faction politics of Fallout: New Vegas seem limited.

The player’s mission in Mainichi might become finding the path of least heartache. Walking down a sidewalk, for example, is more than a mundane everyday occurrence. Whereas the sidewalks of Will You Ever Return: In da Hood showcase an intermingling of fantasy and reality, the sidewalks of Mainichi smack only of uncomfortable realities about prejudice and relief. Nonplayable characters prompt you, not the other way around.

The coffee shop sequence is the most provocative part of the game. If you play Mainichi in a certain way, you can avoid discomfort and discouragement until it comes from an unexpected source. This “ending” fulfills Brice’s intensely personal message, less of a damning critique than a difficult heart-to-heart.

Last year critic Sidney Fussell asked “Can videogames teach us about race?” Mainichi, though more about gender, answered that question the year before it was asked. Brice could have made a longer, less repetitive, and more hopeful game (for that, Grand Titons is a better artistic creation), but at the very least, Mainichi provides a window into the social potential of video games.