The tools of the game

Regarding our recent foray into machinima, I found most interesting the use of the rules and mechanics of games like Halo in unintended ways. In a way, shows like This Spartan Life and Red vs. Blue resemble literary fan fiction--they elaborate on the primary text in a creative way which expands the possibility of the created world. These tributes essentially borrow the world built by the writer/creators and rearrange certain elements, speculate on previously established characters, and even imitate the mechanics of the original author's writing style. However, machinima seems to go farther than fan fiction in its creative activity while taking place inside the very same game world in which the creators built their text. The software with which machinima creators film their shows/movies is the very same software that the gamebuilders turn over to a publisher. The creation of machinima requires rearrangement of game elements, selective use of in-game environments, and manipulation of provided software scripts (e.g. physics engines). A fan fiction writer cannot engage in the same manipulation of the story world because the written storyworld is not so fluid as the video game's. The written story world is defined by the linear narration by the author, and is limited to the boundaries presented within the pages of the book(s) which describe it. The video game storyworld, by contrast, is a more dynamic engine, which includes the traditional story elements, but also includes massive visual environments, artificial intelligence rules, and virtually constructed physical boundaries (physics engines, "invisible walls", etc.) The game storyworld is dynamic and an engine in the sense that it is constantly reacting to the actions of the player, in a recurring act of creation which never stops "building" the world occupied by the player's avatar. Horizon fog (a staple of many games) which obscures the gamespace and helps to create a sense of distance on the 2-D game screen, reveals the dynamic nature of the game engine--as the player advances, horizon fog dissolves into scenery, or more literally, undefined pixels are converted into mapped gamespace. Even in games without horizon fog, the simple act of movement by the character requires active mapping by the game software to reveal parts of the gamespace previously outside of the player's view on the screen.

In addition to manipulating the virtual world created by the primary text, machinimists even have the ability to transform that world into something entirely different. On the small scale, Red vs. Blue and This Spartan Life rewrite the rules of Halo's fictional universe--they change locations written into the game world into something more useful for their creative fiction. For example, a medical tent in Halo could become a dog house or a camping tent or a speaker's podium in a work of machinima. In the case of Red vs. Blue, Master Chief can be transformed from a relatively ambiguous and nameless avatar into several recognizable characters (when paired with the differentiated voices of the creators/actors). On a larger scale, players of Half Life 2 using Garry's Mod (a "sandbox mode" which allows players to conjure, manipulate, arrange, and change game elements in an open space) almost have the ability to create new worlds--ones with half-gravity, watermelon guns, and carefully arranged ragdoll characters.

In some cases, machinima essentially builds new worlds. However, this activity requires, in addition to using the provided software and game elements, the same creative writing as fan fiction. The world of Red vs. Blue is a mixture of the Halo world and the Rooster Teeth world--it is a mixture of rules established by the two creator groups. Thus, machinima can serve the same role as literary fan fiction, but the dynamic virtual worlds created by video games permits a much broader capability to create new worlds from the inherited text.

I'm curious to hear what anyone thinks about my conclusions--does my differentiation of fan fiction and machinima go too far or not far enough? Is machinima, counter to my argument, more constrained by the inheritance of the game's rules?

Where is the Second Life epitext?

When discussing a single-player game, the definition of its paratexts (Genette) seems relatively straightforward. The peritext--those thresholds between the game-world and the real-world which are attached to the game's "body" itself--can take the form of packaging, cover art, reviews and ratings on the box, the manual and/or story booklets inside it, and even the in game user interface, self-conscious tutorials, and title sequences or credits. The epitext--those thresholds which exist outside immediate proximity to the text--can take the form of marketing devices, game reviews, creator interviews, walkthroughs, cheat code websites, and online player forums. These epitexts, created by the media, the game creators, or the game players significantly alter the reception of the game from outside of the game world (hence, they fall under the category of paratexts). Significantly differing from peritext, the epitext seems to be more fully self-conscious of its outside-the-text status. Peritexts, especially in-game, are frequently slipped in quietly, in an attempt to integrate smoothly with actual gameplay, which comprises the primary text. Other peritexts, like packaging, reviews, ratings, etc. are usually well-established video game conventions provided by producers and expected by consumers to help them place the game within a conceptual framework and develop specific desired (by the producer) expectations of what the game offers. Epitext, however, remains conscious of and even emphasizes the fact that it is created as an addition to the game, and must be sought out, transacted, or buffered through crossings of media.

A massively multiplayer online world, like Second Life, has many obvious epitexts that seem to embrace the traditional definition--just look at the feverish press coverage of the activities of real world businesses within Second Life's "virtual economy." Because players can purchase land, goods, and services, real corporations have flocked to the virtual world to hawk computer versions of their products for real money (translated into linden dollars). Back to epitexts, however. This press coverage, while chronicling the experience of gameplay and shaping perceptions for both players and onlookers, still exists well outside the body of the game itself--it exists in another medium and is sought out by the viewer rather than included in the game. Thus, it is firmly epitextual.

But what about a text which is user-created within the game itself? In Second Life, users can create (and sell) pretty much anything they want. So what if a Second Life player writes a song or a guide to buying and selling real estate in Second Life and sells that text to another player in Second Life. What about a chat between two users, one offering help to another? Because this all occurs in Second Life, complications arise. Should this user created text be considered in or out of the game--epitext, peritext, or pure text? The complicating factor is that user-creation and user-interaction lies at the very core of the Second Life gameplay experience. The purpose of the game is to allow players a venue in which to act out whatever fantasies (within the game's framework) they wish to pursue. The most strict definition of the game, then, would be the virtual space, tools, and network in which users build and manipulate freely. What a user creates is not a product of Linden Labs, although it is an intended result of the game. Thus, the question returns, how do we categorize these products?

Because they exist within the gamespace, it is tempting to call user-created objects"texts" proper--they are the intended results of gameplay in the form of codes running within the overall frame of Second Life. However, in the case of songs or linguistic texts (as opposed to virtual objects like clothes), it seems more accurate to call user-created media within the Second Life universe epitext. Unlike game objects, which must exist in code, linguistic texts inside Second Life can and conceivably do cross the threshold of Second Life and take on an existence in the "real world" -- for example, on a user's hard drive, as a text file. The user created texts, self aware of their user authorship and non-Linden Lab authorship, are similar to epitexts in that their intention, creation, and interpretation are connected to Second Life, but not integrated into it. Second Life objects, by contrast, are produced within the software framework and their existence is limited to that virtual universe. They are therefore more similar to peritexts. (If Second Life objects had another universe in which to exist, i.e., if they could be ported into other forms, perhaps they too could be considered epitextual).

The qualifying condition for all of my claims is that I am defining the primary text--the gameplay of Second Life--as the virtual space and tools which users implement to shape their game experience. While user-creation is an integral goal and purpose of the game, the objects created by users cannot be predicted or controlled, only permitted, by the rules of the game. Thus, the software oriented objects, which do not inherently alter the overarching structure (universal rules) of Second Life, but are attached (via code) to the universe, more closely resemble paratext. Alternately, creative objects within the game which do not require more than a superficial coding to enter the game and have some sort of external existence more closely resemble epitext. However, complications abound, and at this point, only careful research into the modes of existence for different user-created "texts" will help to confirm these propositions. The material origins of the term "paratext" may need to be altered in order to help explain the relationship between these objects and the game vs. real worlds.

Note to self: Lite Brites scare old people

(sorry about the title--I've got the Boston fiasco on the brain)

Viral and non-traditional marketing campaigns are slowly approaching the mainstream as a growing segment of the population becomes more comfortable with the non-traditional media which is emerging from our computer screens, cell phones/PDAs, iPods, and (once they have lost most of their "cool-factor") TV screens. Many consumer goods, like cars, shampoo, and even tupperware (on of the primary non-digital forms of viral marketing) build campaigns around word of mouth to generate interest in the products without engaging in traditional TV and Print ad campaigns. These firms typically create some sort of "real world" experience through which to bridge the gap between marketing and the everyday lives of potential customers. In simple cases, these events occur in friends' homes. However, as media delivery systems become more sophisticated and varied, the firms are able to generate audio, video, or visual artifacts which are delivered in quiet and spread through the marketplace via word of mouth. In some cases, like the now infamous Aqua Teen Hunger Force lightboard campaign, these viral marketing tactics take the form of seemingly inexplicable signs, art installations, or public displays.


Other viral campaigns attempt to create a "trail of breadcrumbs" which curious viewers must follow in order to learn more about the mysterious product being advertised (successful example: "What is the Matrix?" posters in 1999 for The Matrix; unsuccessful example: "Who Stole the Show?" ad campaign for the Chicago auto show this month). In the case of consumer goods, these marketing campaigns essentially create a network of texts, like a sign pointing to a website, about the good/service to be sold, which achieves the same goals of traditional advertising (i.e., educating the consumer, differentiating products, generating brand loyalty, etc.) without the "stodgy" personality of traditional Madison Avenue ad campaigns. In pursuing the trail of breadcrumbs and "reading" the ad campaign, the viewer comes to know the product with the mild psychological reward of discovering the truth behind the mystery. For most consumer goods and services, these marketing campaigns do not significantly alter the material makeup of the product. For example, no ad campaign can change the horsepower or ride of a Nissan Versa--it can only alter our expectations of it.

However, the story is different when the advertised product is, in itself, a text. Albums, video games, movies, TV shows, books, etc., are not necessarily bound by the same limitations as a car, and can be significantly expanded, edited, and altered by the production of these viral marketing devices, or "paratexts." Take for example, the television show Lost, and its NBC protege, Heroes. Both Lost and Heroes have extensive paratextual content (that is to say, texts closely associated with the original which play a significant role in the formation and reception of the original text) available on the Internet. Both shows paratextual network also attempt to blur the boundary between the fiction of the shows and the real world. For example, Lost's paratexts include, among episode guides and summaries, "real" websites for corporations which played a seemingly marginal, but growing roles in certain episodes, and of course, an immersive game called The Lost Experience. Heroes's paratexts include graphic novels, blogs by characters and chances to "interact" with the show through another immersive game, The Heroes 360 Experience. The majority of these paratexts are sanctioned and even created by the show's producers and writers, and therefore seem officially a part of the text, or 'canonical.' They introduce a flavor of ergodicism into the shows by placing puzzles and challenges between the curious viewers and the nearly infinite strains of information which can be used to put together a unique understanding of the texts.

However, what about user/viewer-created content? Message boards, theories, fan fiction, and chats abound about the possibilities of the shows, offering an even more extensive network of paratexts which expand and frequently illuminate what viewers see in both the primary TV show texts and the producer-created paratexts. They play a vital role in the reception of the text, but only for those viewers dedicated enough to navigate the multiple levels of paratext. Furthermore, because they are not produced by the creative minds behind the show, they do not contain officially sanctioned, "canonical" information. So how are we to receive them? Can we fairly call these fan-created paratexts and "official" part of the textual network? The producers of both Lost and Heroes certainly encourage the production of these texts. Thus, while it could seem illogical to a traditional student of this type of text to consider the fan-created content a significant, even official part of the text, it is nonetheless true that these texts perform the same interpretive purpose as "academic" criticism, and also expand the possibilities of the reader/viewer experience. Since the unique reader reception and experience of a text forms a significant part of the field textual studies, it follows that these paratexts, which vastly expand the potential ways in which a viewer might approach these shows, necessitate closer study. However, it is important to remember their place as companion texts which, produced further away from the primary text, are only a part of the large network of information and materials which form the "worlds" of Lost and Heroes.