An Alchemist’s Quest
We stand at the precipice across which is the span of mathematics, perceptible but untouchable. Try as we might, there is no foundation below us that will let us make the divide smaller than it is at the moment. A question we might not be able to answer is whether we are engaged in a search for our own philosopher’s stone. By “we,” I do not just mean game designers; I mean all of us who play games since we are a part of an ongoing process. Games are designed to help us become more skilful, which helps us be more successful in our daily routines. We play to get better, to learn, as best exemplified in Jane McGonigal’s Reality is Broken.
Improvement and refinement are part of the processes in design and honing skills. They are also part of the idea behind the alchemist’s rarified element known as the philosopher’s stone. Just like alchemists, we have not found a way to obtain the very thing we seek. We have learned how to name previously unknown aspects of the world as we have created ways to duplicate the conditions letting us observe and experience such previously unknowable phenomena. Or, to put it bluntly, it is a form of mastery that we are able to identify and manipulate some aspect of nature.
For all our efforts, though, we are unable to lessen the distance between language and math despite the observable gains we make with each new discovery. We know what our goal is on some level, but we do not know how to get there. Our best guesses are done with the hope that it will be a while before players find the holes in our systems that break the illusion. In the meantime, there is a chance something will emerge from the experiences people have that will move us forward. I will grant you that this seems nobler than what any one designer can achieve. It is, however, the general trend through history for humanity’s endeavors in general.
The magic circle is our crucible in which we isolate some (often intangible) aspect of the world and explore the implications within the rules imposed. This is what any good simulation or model is meant to do. Take for instance climate science models that try to measure the effects of climate change based on human actions. If you structure it like a game so that periodic input by a person is required, the system will provide feedback that affects the conditions for choices at the next point where human input is needed. The user sees what his actions have on the complex processes of weather and seasons and what that can do to the inherent variability of that system. Since climate is such a complex system, the results are close approximations based on observable data. Technically, such simulations are not a game, but they use the same principles and tools as games to hone a skill. In this example, it is knowledge of climate science and awareness of consequences.
And herein is where games and simulations bring us to greater levels of understanding: the skills and knowledge gained are heightened as one begins to learn how the consequences of actions function and thus how to turn those consequences to one’s advantage. What point is there to teach someone a skill or piece of knowledge if the individual sees no advantage in acquiring what is imparted? The incentive to master a challenge must come from competition. This could be external or internal, but the recipient of the skills has to have something to compete against in order to establish a metric for comparison. Once you have experienced something, there is no desire to repeat it unless enjoyment can be found, and what greater sense of enjoyment is there to know you are amongst the ranks of the best practitioners of the skills or knowledge in question?
Simulations are often boring for this reason. If there is no way to improve your results, why would you repeat it time and again unless you had to as part of a daily routine? We end up with diminishing returns resulting in repetition leading to stagnation. Consider the one activity that is probably the pinnacle of physical pleasure: sex. Now, if a couple never varies their routine, when does this go from the most fun an adult can have to a boring, mechanical process? Routine sucks the joy out of everything because of something Raph Koster points out in A Theory of Fun for Game Design: the brain hates thinking about the same thing repeatedly. When is the last time you had to think about all the complex motions needed to hold utensils so you can eat? The brain stops us from being conscious of actions we have mastered because that creates more work than the brain needs or wants to do and can render the most pleasurable experiences into arduous tasks.
What does any of this have to do with the divide between language and math? Everything. The desire to gather new data is encoded into the structure of our brain. Given that we know a divide exists between out principle mediums of information transfer, we are always looking for new data to explain how the world works, why, and how to adapt to these new perceptions. All predators are driven to be more aware of their environment. It is a survival instinct that is also required by prey to avoid being eaten. The difference for humans, to our knowledge, is that we have learned to move beyond basic survival skills. We are aware enough that we realized we could manipulate or mitigate circumstances; it is why we farm and hunt rather than specialize in one technique for food acquisition. That is one of our chief evolutionary adaptations.
This leads us to another breakthrough we had to survive this long: there is too much data for any one person to master in such a short time. Games allow us to see where we rank amongst our peers in any given skill. In a long-term survival worldview, this is an effective means to determine divisions of labor. Without tools, solitary survival is difficult at best. Making fire, shelter, clothing, and other objects that make life easier requires a lot of energy and time. Such time consumed in these kinds of labor take away from the energy needed to find food. By specializing, we make our survival chances go up – we also stop trying to learn everything and, subsequently, we free ourselves to learn more.
Where our freedom to narrow our scope from all topics to a few becomes manifest is in the realm of specialization. The focus on one task provides deeper insight into the techniques used to produce the desired results. Recall earlier in this series that the Greek root of technique refers to not just art, skill, and technique, but also means “to reveal.” Specialization allows people to reveal the ways in which the end results of a skill, art, or technique can be improved. After all, when the task becomes rote, the brain looks for new ways to entertain itself. This leads to innovations as the person’s proficiency identifies patterns and alterations that can be improved upon or performed faster. The same pursuit is what the alchemists engaged in on their search for the philosopher’s stone, albeit in a more spiritual context.
Our brains are designed to seek stimulation because it makes us better predators by shunting off rote tasks into regions that require less energy and less cognitive effort. That allows the hunter to take in more information in order to stay active and alert for the signs of prey. So when that need to keep stimulated encounters tasks intelligence has deemed necessary to ensure survival, the brain finds ways to turn the cognitive functions towards ways to reimagine a task. Innovation comes from the mastery of the basic elements of a task. The rest of the revelation in specialization comes from practical experience and other knowledge or skills garnered outside the task. A good stitch that proves its resiliency gets reused and likely passes from one clothing article to another. This can even jump from one skill set to another, such as lashings used to keep shelters together, stone points affixed to spear shafts, and vice versa.
The jump from one medium to another is part of the artistry that results from specialization. Beyond that, however, is the manner in which we look for a new edge. It not only allows us to survive as an individual, but it also gives rise to art. Art is the way in which a person sets himself apart and serves as an attempt to survive culturally long after the rest of the group has been forgotten. Thus, we learn to compete in ways that are intended to diffuse tension and promote group cohesion while satisfying our instinctual need. Here is where structured competition comes into play.
Games work as the crucible that allows us to learn who is best at a particular skill set and introduces outside knowledge one individual may have that another lacks. Hence, the game becomes the conduit that brings a stitching pattern to the attention of the hunter, bowyer, and so forth. Innovation comes from seeing the technique and the desire to incorporate it into one’s own repertoire. That very change is what alchemists sought in their experiments. When we think we have made it our own, we try using the technique to reveal our own prowess – and perhaps superiority over our competition. When we have nothing new to gain, we change the game (see Driven Towards Extinction). This drives us to make new games that take the new knowledge base into consideration, which in turn leads to new forms of mastery and knowledge. The cycle repeats as the refinement goes on and shows us that there is something just beyond our reach, just like the philosopher’s stone.
Previous:
Anatomy of Game Design: An Unbridgeable Divide, Part 5
Next:
Anatomy of Game Design: An Unbridgeable Divide, Part 7