Ludonarrative Dissonance in Bioshock

The problem of what the game is about

[traduit en francais ici]

About a year ago, I praised Ian Bogost's critique of Bully and lamented the unfortunate lack of game criticism, as distinct from game reviews. Roughly speaking, we could say game criticism is for game developers and professionals who want to think about the nature of games and what they mean. Game reviews are for the public – for people who play games – and they are intended to help those people make decisions about which games they should buy. Both are valuable and important contributions, but sadly, we seem to only have one.

So this is not going to be a review of Bioshock. If you want a review of Bioshock go here. This is going to be a critique of Bioshock – a limited one perhaps, because I don’t have the time to really give this game the 50,000 plus word critical examination I think it deserves, but it will be a critique nonetheless.

Before I tear into it though, I want to apologize to the folks who worked on the game. If this was a review, it would be glowing, but as a critique it’s going to be pretty rough. I mostly really enjoyed this game, and aside from a few minor quibbles that are inevitable coming from a guy who lists System Shock 2 as his favorite game of all time, I basically think the game is great. In a very important sense Bioshock lives up the expectations created by its ancestor by inviting us to ask important and compelling questions, which is wonderful. But unfortunately, in most cases, I think the answers Bioshock provides to those questions are confused, frustrating, deceptive and unsatisfactory.

To cut straight to the heart of it, Bioshock seems to suffer from a powerful dissonance between what it is about as a game, and what it is about as a story. By throwing the narrative and ludic elements of the work into opposition, the game seems to openly mock the player for having believed in the fiction of the game at all. The leveraging of the game’s narrative structure against its ludic structure all but destroys the player’s ability to feel connected to either, forcing the player to either abandon the game in protest (which I almost did) or simply accept that the game cannot be enjoyed as both a game and a story, and to then finish it for the mere sake of finishing it.

So what is the form of this dissonance and why does it shatter the internal consistency of the work so totally?

Bioshock is a game about the relationship between freedom and power. It is at once (and among other things) an examination and a criticism of Randian Objectivism. It says, rather explicitly, that the notion that rational self-interest is moral or good is a trap, and that the ‘power’ we derive from complete and unchecked freedom necessarily corrupts, and ultimately destroys us.

The game begins by offering the player two contracts.

One is a ludic contract – literally ‘seek power and you will progress’. This ludic contract is in line with the values underlying Randian rational self-interest. The rules of the game say ‘it is best if I do what is best for me without consideration for others’. This is a pretty standard value in single player games where all the other characters in the game world (or at very least all of the characters in play in the game world) tend to be in direct conflict with the player. However, it must be pointed out that Bioshock goes the extra mile and ties this game mechanical contract back to the narrative in spectacular fashion through the use of the Little Sisters. By ‘dressing up’ the mechanics of this contract in well realized content I literally experience what it means to gain by doing what is best for me (I get more Adam) without consideration for others (by harvesting Little Sisters).

Thus, the ludic contract works in the sense that I actually feel the themes of the game being expressed through mechanics. The game literally made me feel a cold detachment from the fate of the Little Sisters, who I assumed could not be saved (or even if they could, would suffer some worse fate at the hands of Tenenbaum). Harvesting them in pursuit of my own self-interest seems not only the best choice mechanically, but also the right choice. This is exactly what this game needed to do – make me experience – feel – what it means to embrace a social philosophy that I would not under normal circumstances consider.

To be successful, the game would need to not only make me somehow adopt this difficult philosophy, but then put me in a pressure-cooker where the systems and content slowly transform the game landscape until I find myself caught in the aforementioned ‘trap’. Unfortunately, when we take the first, ludic contract and map it to the game’s second contract, the game falls apart.

The game’s second contract is a narrative contract – ‘help Atlas and you will progress’. There are three fundamental problems with this being the narrative contract of the game.

First, this contract is not in line with the values underlying Randian rational self-interest; ‘helping someone else’ is presented as the right thing to do by the story, yet the opposite proposition appears to be true under the mechanics.

Second, Atlas is openly opposed to Ryan, yet again, as mentioned above, I am philosophically aligned with Ryan by my acceptance of the mechanics. Why do I want to stop Ryan, or kill him, or listen to Atlas at all? Ryan’s philosophy is in fact the guiding principle of the mechanics that I am experiencing through play.

Thirdly, I don’t have a choice with regards to the proposition of the contract. I am constrained by the design of the game to help Atlas, even if I am opposed to the principle of helping someone else. In order to go forward in the game, I must do as Atlas says because the game does not offer me the freedom to choose sides in the conflict between Ryan and Atlas.

This is a serious problem. In the game’s mechanics, I am offered the freedom to choose to adopt an Objectivist approach, but I also have the freedom to reject that approach and to rescue the Little Sisters, even though it is not in my own (net) best interest to do so (even over time according to this fascinating data).

Yet in the game’s fiction on the other hand, I do not have that freedom to choose between helping Atlas or not. Under the ludic contract, if I accept to adopt an Objectivist approach, I can harvest Little Sisters. If I reject that approach, I can rescue them. Under the story, if I reject an Objectivist approach, I can help Atlas and oppose Ryan, and if I choose to adopt an Objectivist approach – well too bad… I can stop playing the game, but that’s about it.

That’s the dissonance I am talking about, and it is disturbing. Now, disturbing is one thing, but let’s just accept for a moment that we forgive that. Let’s imagine that we say ‘well, it’s a game, and the mechanics are great, so I will overlook the fact that the story is kind of forcing me to do something out of character…’. That’s far from the end of the world. Many games impose a narrative on the player. But when it is revealed that the rationale for why the player helps Atlas is not a ludic constraint that we graciously accept in order to enjoy the game, but rather is a narrative one that is dictated to us, what was once disturbing becomes insulting. The game openly mocks us for having willingly suspended our disbelief in order to enjoy it.

The feeling is reminiscent of the Ikea commercial where we are mocked for feeling sorry for the lamp. But instead of being tricked by a quirky 60 second ad, we are mocked after a 20 hour commitment for having sympathy for the limitations of a medium. The ‘twist’ in the plot is a dues ex machina built upon the very weaknesses of game stories that we – as players – agree to accept in order to have some sort of narrative framework to flavor our fiddling about with mechanics. To mock us for accepting the weaknesses of the medium not only insults the player, but it’s really kind of ‘out of bounds’ (except as comedy or as a meta element – of which it appears to be neither).

Now, I understand the above criticism is harsh, and also that it is built upon complex arguments, so let me clarify a few things.

First, this is not a review. If it was, I would be raving (mostly) about the interesting abilities, fun weapons, beautiful environments, engaging enemy ‘eco-system’, freedom of choice, openness to explore, and a mountain of other fantastic things. But I’m not talking about all of the reasons players should play this game and all of the reasons they will certainly enjoy it. I am talking about the fabric of the game. I am talking about the nature of the game at the most fundamental levels that I can perceive. I am talking about weaknesses that I see (or more importantly that I feel) when I become deeply drawn into the game and really experience what is being expressed in its systems and content.

Second, the points I am making may seem trivial or bizarre to a lot of people, and certainly the arguments the points are built on are complicated. I am sure they are hard for many game developers to understand and impossible for laymen. Honestly – I only partially understand what I am experiencing when I play a game as thoroughly as I played BioShock, and frankly I only half understand what I am saying as I write this. With the ‘language of games’ being as limited as it is, understanding what I am ‘reading’ is hard, and trying to articulate it back to people in a useful way is a full order of magnitude harder.

So take this criticism for what it is worth. It is the complaint of a semi-literate, half-blind Neanderthal, trying to comprehend the sandblasted hieroglyphic poetry of a one-armed Egyptian mason.

Not long ago – in my rebuttal to Ebert – I asserted that GTA: San Andreas was a more important work of art than Crash. Now, I’m not going to bother to announce that BioShock is a work of art. I will, however, point to another often used film-game comparison… the one that states that games do not yet have their Citizen Kane. Similarities between Orson Welles and Andrew Ryan aside, BioShock is not our Citizen Kane. But it does – more than any game I have ever played – show us how close we are to achieving that milestone. BioShock reaches for it, and slips. But we leave our deepest footprints when we pick ourselves up from a fall. It seems to me that it will take us several years to learn from BioShock’s mistakes and create a new generation of games that do manage to successful marry their ludic and narrative themes into a consistent and fully realized whole. From that new generation of games, perhaps the one that is to BioShock as BioShock is to System Shock 2 will be our Citizen Kane.

Comments

[Samuel Bono]

I'm posting a couple years late, but it should be noted that the game wants you to feel frustrated with "ludonarative dissonance". The lack of will in the player's character serves as a meta-narrative about player choice in games. By playing the game you acknowledge that you have no free will within in the confines of its systems and that you are subject to what its author intends for you.

Sure, you don't have to play the game, but then the game is still right. You shouldn't find the Objective approach naratively palatable.

[Seigeengine]

I think that this critique fails because it ignores a few points.

The first is that Humans are not objective creatures. We are certainly not motivated to act solely by simple profit. Once our basic needs are covered, more complex needs emerge. This can be related to the little sisters, and ADAM. You do not need even as much ADAM as you get from saving the little sisters in Bioshock. Is it nice to have? Sure. Is it needed? No. Will you really even miss it, if you're willing to be even the slightest bit choosy about what plasmids you purchase? No. The gratification of feeling as if you've done the right thing more than repays the minor loss in ADAM. Similar to how people give to charity, rather than having that money for themselves.

More importantly... you are not helping Atlas to help Atlas. You are helping Atlas because you know nothing, and Atlas can show you a way. On top of that, Atlas is an ally with you against a party that is directly trying to cause you harm. On top of this, you have reason to sympathize with Atlas, having "witnessed" the loss of his family at the hands of Ryan, someone you have every reason to believe would do something of that sort. You have every reason to trust Atlas, and Atlas is showing you a way. Helping Atlas is not even out of charity based on that. It's a trade. You help Atlas achieve his goals, and Atlas helps you discover who you are, and why you're here. He also helps guide you to the man whose been trying to kill you the entire time. There is no rational alternative. You may or may not agree with Andrew's ideology, and you may or may not be playing the game to maximize (nigh-pointlessly, might I add) a stats surplus, but you really have no reason not to align yourself against Andrew. There is no significant ideological twist to siding with Atlas. You're just going against the guy whose trying to kill you. Something consistent with both gameplay (I'm not using the word "ludic". It's just rude to use words most people won't understand when not necessary), and narrative elements of the game. Even if you wanted to side with Ryan, Ryan considers you a lackey of Fontaine, and knows you're controllable against him. Why would he side with you?

The whole of the above is what, for most players, made the betrayal so powerful. Not only did you have every reason to trust Atlas' motivations, but you had every reason to do what he said. Something that, thematically, makes a lot of sense given you were being mind-controlled without your knowledge. It is only when the manipulation is pointed out to you that the narrative shifts gears and makes it obvious, and in-your-face.

Rather than the disturbing becoming insulting, the rational grows in depth (and yes, becomes slightly insulting... I'll get to this in a moment). It questions what you knew, or took for granted. It shifts the foundations you had been playing on up to that point.

And as to mocking the player... perhaps that is a good thing. Too many games expect you to follow orders without question, or any real analysis of what's going on. Too many games demand mindlessness, or thinking in a narrow way. Bioshock does the same. It plays you for a fool, while telling you to think. That slogan "A man chooses, a slave obeys" occurs throughout the whole of the game. Yet, most players will not really question what they're told to do. Those that will? Well, the game wasn't wielded at you. Players will follow along, happily doing what they're told. All the while having that slogan shoved in their faces. All the time being asked "would you kindly...". All the time submitting without deeper thought of the issue than "he's trying to kill me". All the without really questioning beyond surface appearances. The game mocks you for all of this. It looks the player straight in the eye and says "how easily you obeyed".

So while I see what you mean, I don't think most people will experience your "ludonarrative" dissonance, simply because they will both never question the narrative meaningfully, and because the gameplay and the narrative really aren't that dissonance arousing to begin with as you found it.

My biggest criticism of the bioshock series isn't any dissonance I experienced (though there certainly is dissonance to be experienced with the whole mind-control reveal) but rather how heavy-handed they are with their criticism of extreme political ideologies.

[leo]

I rather enjoyed your article. TBH, I think Bioshock's take on Rand's Objectivism is a bit superficial, but this is another discussion. I would just like to point out what to me was a fundamental flaw in the Little Sisters mechanic: the game can be very easily finished without harvesting a single one of them. I believe that, in order for this mechanic to be more in line with the rest of the game, harvesting the Little Sis should make your progress through the game infinitely easier. What I found, however, was that, after I didn't harvest the first one, I coud just go along, up until I found the next one, and never, in-between, I actually felt compelled, or thought the game was getting too hard and that I could use a break.

[emmanuel guardiola]

Hi Clint

Remind me some nice exchanges about meaning in game design at Ubisoft. One of the biggest issue in our industry is the misunderstanding of gameplay as a strong vector for idea.

Best

Emmanuel

[Vincent]

Clint, I don't see how the game mocking you is a bad thing. It's telling gamers to question narratives and why you are just doing what the narrative tells you to do, so that we expect better. It is a revolutionary piece of art for this reason.

Spec Ops mocks you too and is similarly great.

If you thought some of these complex things were bad in Bioshock 1, I'd love to see your take on Bioshock Infinite, which really suffers from some major issues in asking the player to go along with its narrative.

PS Love Splinter Cell, thanks for your hand in one of my top 5 games.

[Sven]

This is still an interesting read. But for me it was far simpler than this:

The game's narrative tries to go all out philosophical -- whereas the actual gameplay is pretty much as lowbrow as you can get: Here's a couple corridors, move through, trigger the AI of the bad guys (who will scream and come at you as soon as they sniff you) -- kill 'em. Over and over and over and over again.

Not only did this become tiresome already during my first time through -- it also completely clashed with what the game was trying to tell, as well as being a rather unsophisticated offspring of a legacy of quite refined games (Shock2, Underworld, Thief, et all.) The reason for doing this can be read both directly and indirectly of course in the "Post Mortem" article now on Gamedevelopers.com: The game initially started out as something a bit more refined than that. But was then tuned into something else as, finally, Irrational wanted to do a game that was both a cricital as well as a commercial smash hit.

Two years ago I played Desperados 3. Desperados 3 was the next game to come from the guys of the surprise hit Shadow Tactics. It's an isometric/top down stealth strategy game, harkening back to the days of Commandos. It's actually pretty open in terms of level design here often: You're given tools (character abilities, environments), goals (blow this bridge up), and off you go. It actually often reminded me a of a top-down Dishonored (the devs want to go even more sandboxy with their next game, can't wait!) Anyway, here it's the complete opposite.

The main narrative is a simple Western revenge story. The main guy is a loner who eventually has to team up with a couple other guys to take revenge. And the writing may not be as refined as Levine's. But the game pulls this off both in narrative as well as gameplay straight to the very last stand-off, which the main guy cannot pull off without a little help from his new-found friends. There's even one mission where two guys engage in a little competition of who can kill / take out (your choice) the most guys in the mission. And it's hilarious how they comment each take-down.

I was totally cheering for the last moments of this game. Whereas in Bioshock, facing the most cliche video boss in recent history after so much running and gunning, I was like: REALLY?

I haven't played through Bioshock completely once since (unlike Shock2, Thief, et all). For Desperados 3 I immediately bought all DLC and tried to complete the optional challenges (which flip the same maps and levels upside down, by prohibiting you from using certain characters and their abilities -- or just by disallowing you to hide in the bushes, etc.) It wasn't until Arkane's "Prey" by the way that I had made my peace with Bioshock. At least some. To me it's the true "spiritial successor" of Shock 2. Bioshock was just.. something else.