When people discuss structuralism, they’re talking about a
number of qualities presented by texts, both conventional literary pieces and
other, less traditional texts, that play on the structure or nature of the
medium that they exist within. Films
that play on being films, books that play on being books, and, of course, games
that play on being games.
Some games are pretty heavy handed structuralist offerings. DLC
Quest, for example, is one big joke about the structure of games. These games aren’t terribly interesting to
dig into, not because of any shortcomings on their part (DLC Quest is great, and many other games that poke fun at the
nature of games as medium are great fun as well) but because they wear their
structuralist tendencies on their sleeves, and while we can discuss whether or
not they accomplish their goals until the cows come home, talking about how
their structural awareness works or doesn’t work is a bit like talking about
whether or not a clown’s shoes are big enough: there really isn’t that much to
say beyond yay or nay.
But other, more apparently conventional games use
structuralism to much subtler effect.
Some games will use structural shifts to represent changes in a
character. For example, Tomb Raider gradually adjusts its
mechanics through an expanding ability set and increased character durability,
to the point that brutally challenging maneuvers that require desperate button
mashing in the beginning of the game are eventually condensed to single button
pushes that execute with an icy grace. The
game is really about Lara Croft becoming a badass, and this transformation is
established largely through shifts in mechanics.
Structuralism is particularly key to the Bioshock series of games, which is especially
interesting when you consider their massive commercial appeal. Bioshock
simultaneously presents an effective semiotic delivery system that penetrates
the subconscious of a commanding number of gamers and presents a rewardingly
deep, enriching narrative structure that utilizes game mechanics to both tell a
story and reinforce thematic elements through play. In fact, I’d go so far as to contend that Bioshock, as a series, is not about the
amalgam of plasmid-like powers and gunplay, but is instead about structuralism
in games. Specifically, how the
structure of a game might tell a story that extends beyond the text-as-written
of a game. The first Bioshock did this through some clever
use of directive mechanics and judicious application of cutscenes. The second Bioshock did so with alterations in perspective and some brilliant
play on the rules of the first game. But
the third Bioshock really takes the
cake, utilizing core mechanics to add layering to its delightfully dense story.
I’ve previously written about how Bioshock: Infinite failed in a number of respects, foremost among
them its gameplay. But I haven’t been as
captivated to finish a game in spite of its play in a very, very long
time. Much of that, nearly all of that
in fact, came from Bioshock: Infinite’s
superlative storytelling, which builds itself on structural awareness from its
start menu to its queer, resonant conclusion.
The core conceit of Bioshock:
Infinite is that you, or rather your companion, can travel between
dimensions. This transit between
dimensions is a by-product of another discovery by a brilliant physicist who,
scattered across existence, enlists your services so that her dick twin brother
(who is somewhat less brilliant, but pretty close) won’t leave her stranded on
the sea of time alone. This comes out in
a few different ways. You’re constantly
visited by a pair of teleporting twins, who provide you with cryptic advice and
color commentary throughout the game.
They present you with arbitrary choices which, in the end, prove totally
meaningless, echoing the structure of the game itself (and presenting a neat
little button on the futile nature of attempting to choose your way out of
destiny). These are effectively in-game
cutscenes, similar to interactions with the G-Man in Half-Life 2. These meetings
give the game context, and give it some nice flavor, but they’re at best
tangentially related to play. These elements don’t form the basis for a
structuralist text, but they do establish the context for such a text to exist
within.
So the presence of characters who constantly talk about
interdimensional travel and time as a fluid state, wherein we exist in a
suspended moment of hyperpositionality (dead, dying, will die, lived, living,
will live) doesn’t make this a post-structural work, even though it nods at the
literalize time travel that games permit us to engage in (which normalizes such
activities as, oh, say resetting a game or replaying a level). Elizabeth, then, forms the crux of this
structurally aware gameplay methodology.
You see, Elizabeth can manipulate these varied, colliding
dimensions, materializing new elements in the game world. She violates the structure of the world in
order to generate a means of forwarding the narrative, literalizing the
activity of play that the game itself presents to players. It’s a blunt mechanic, to be sure, but it
alters the structure of play for the sake of narrative quite well. These objects that appear in the game are at
times necessary to move forward, and sometimes Elizabeth’s ability to open
dimensional rifts changes much, much more, altering the course of the entire
narrative. Of course, this is a mechanic
distinct to Bioshock: Infinite, which
makes it slightly less insidious in how it imprints its narrative role upon a
player than other, more ubiquitous game mechanics that Bioshock: Infinite presents players with.
And that’s where Bioshock:
Infinite really blows structuralism out of the water. Death, in Bioshock:
Infinite, involves returning to the old, run-down office where the decision
that sets events into motion takes place.
Each time you die you return to the moment that kicks off the story, a
moment constant throughout each time stream you intersect with. Each Booker gives away each Elizabeth, and
through this act, begins the events of Bioshock:
Infinite. Each time you die, you
return to these coordinates of least resistance, and then begin your adventure
from a moment close to the one you died, but slightly different, slightly
off. Things aren’t exactly as you left
them. You have less money, and enemies
you killed might still be alive. Maybe
they’re healthier than they were when you left.
Maybe you’ll find new resources you didn’t have last time you were
alive.
The dimensional entanglement at the heart of Bioshock: Infinite’s plot is used to
deal with the idea of respawning after death.
The most basic element of a first person shooter, the consequence of
failure, is turned into an integral part of crafting its narrative. Booker dies, and he is not so much reborn as
he is reset in the time stream. He moves
forward to a point similar to the one he left, filling in memories along the
way, but he can’t go back. He can’t make
things exactly as they were before the events, and something remains lost,
slightly off.
The death mechanic is effectively the post-structural crux,
the aspect of gameplay that ties everything together. There are other little nods. Elizabeth pulls supplies out of nowhere, drawing
upon the world in slight, invisible ways that permit her to bring new elements
into play for you. The rifts you
encounter give the world an overarching tone that allows you to understand how
this strange place has come to be, and how it will eventually all be brought
down. But the game itself, and its
conclusion, comes into focus when you consider the death scene, and its role
within the context of the end of the game.
Heavy spoiler alert.
At the end of the game, after Elizabeth has recovered her
full power, she walks you through the events that lead to the point you
share. She brings you to the office you’ve
visited each time you’ve died and, with all due gravity, helps you give her
away. She helps you place her in the
arms of the man who will deliver her to Comstock. This place leads in turn to a more permanent
sort of death, or so it would seem.
But the game ends on a strange note: you do not simply drown
in the river. You drown in the river,
and then wake up in your office anew, calling out Elizabeth’s name. The structure of the game, the repeated deaths,
place you within a cycle even as the narrative cycle of the game ends. The game can and wishes to be replayed. Its plot depends on it. Even when you sacrifice yourself for the
greater good, you remain bound to this office, this place.
The mechanics do not permit you to step outside time: they’re
inelastic, capable of being bent, but not broken. In the end, this is Bioshock: Infinite’s plot as well.
It is not simply a game where you hop around dimensions (though it is
very much that). It is, just as much, a
game about being trapped by decisions you’ve made, a game about trying to
escape fate, and failing, returning time and time again to the same place,
unsure of just what has changed and why.
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