On the Subject of Subtext

"Since the end of world War I, war literature has unquestionably been anti-war in its aims." -Robert Fay

"Instead of striving for neutrality, the first step to truly affecting game design is to realize that nothing is neutral: what we see as a lack of bias is our own blindness to the circumstances we live within." -Elizabeth Sampat, Empathy Engines 

Games that have themes can never be viewed as merely systems. Themes, settings, characters, or stories: these elements give systems meaning. Even if you are pasting a theme onto an abstract (or combinatorial) game. A game that uses flower tokens carries a different message than a game with grenade tokens, even if that message is only that you believe that flower games will sell better to your intended audience. Giving a game a certain theme is a statement of cultural value. 

Making a great deal of games about colonialism from the colonizers' perspective is also a statement of cultural value (or at least perceived cultural value). Games, like history itself, contain the biases and perspectives of those telling the stories. Striving to make games without a perspective beyond "the facts" is impossible: games are abstractions and what gets abstracted (or left out entirely) is up to the editorial discretion of the designer. What is included and what is left out reveals the designer's perspective. 

But beyond acknowledging our biases, I believe designers need to embrace the concept that all themes have subtext. Embracing subtext means embracing layers of meaning. Depth of meaning is a key element when creating quality art. War novels are not merely about war; they are about presenting objections to war by showing the horrors of war. 

Leveraging meaning in game themes can produce powerful experiences. Think about the difference between The Grizzled and Memoir '44. The Grizzled addresses the impact of war, not merely abstracted events such as unit deployment. Addressing impact and telling more nuanced stories are a fairly straightforward ways to add meaning, because showing the human cost of events invites your audience to empathize with the characters represented in the story. 

However, realism is not the only way to add meaning to a theme. Spirit Island is a game with a complex mechanical system and rich thematic setting that repudiates the idea that a game needs to be historical in order to have anything to say about history. Spirit Island is historical fantasy in genre, but the subtext is a repudiation of (historical) colonialism and the depiction of colonialism in board games. Speculative fiction and even fantasy can contain metaphors for the real world. A setting does not have to be factual to contain truth. Sometimes, a setting isn't even "about" what it is about. The Crucible is a play set during the Salem witch trials but is about McCarthyism. Into the Woods is a fairytale musical about the AIDS epidemic. Subtext takes fairy tale characters and tells us deeper truths: even when people are dying indiscriminately, "No one is alone." 

Game themes span the spectrum of depths of meaning. Designers should be intentional about the meaning they infuse into their games, even if that meaning is fairly surface level. Designers should be aware that they can add deeper meaning to their games, but even if they do not, their biases will still underpin the game world. Lastly, designers can create empathy in players by addressing the human impact of a theme, whether that theme is based in realism or falls into the fantasy genre. 

How to tell when a 'thematic' element is, in fact, a gimmick.

First off, what is a gimmick? A gimmick is anything that brings a sense of novelty and appeal but not much else. I think gimmicks in board games tend to follow certain traits that I have outlined in this post. 

A gimmick looks cool, but isn't functional. For example, (according to the Dicetower review) the new version of Cleopatra and the Society of Architects is harder to set up than the original because of all the 3D pieces, which are also more fragile. And without the add-on magnets, the pieces don't stay in place well. Fancier production elements are usually added for increased curb appeal, but all elements should be functional and feel necessary to the game experience. Increased set up time, especially for a shorter game, reduces the functionality of a game as, for instance, an after-dinner-before-dessert diversion.  

A gimmick adds more cost than the value of what is received. Sometimes the cost isn't just the added price. Storage and organization can become a hassle for poorly thought out gimmicks. I am a fan of dimensional cardboard standees, but taking them apart and putting them back together wears them out and the hassle makes the game harder to get back to the table. Or I have to find a way to store the components fully assembled so that they won't get dusty and gross over time. Everdell is famous for this, but Wingspan and Photosynthesis also run into this issue. Photosynthesis is a special case where the trees are integrated into the game and necessary to gameplay, but storage is a hassle because the assembled trees don't quite fit into the box without the danger of warping or bending the cardboard. 

A gimmick makes a game less usable. The biggest offender is large central 3D components that players cannot see around and block the board or have information that requires viewing all sides of the component. Four Gardens' tower has the potential to slow down the game because each player needs time on their turn to figure out how best to turn the tower, which has various numbers of resources on each side of its four levels. However, the dimensionality of the tower lends itself to a clear understanding of how resources are gained—by physically rotating the tower then counting from either the top or the bottom. The question remains whether the increased usability of easily understood actions for variable resource output outweighs the decreased usability of not being able to plan before your turn and not being able to see every option at once. Not all cases are clear cut on whether something is a gimmick. 

A gimmick trades on its uniqueness. Thus, many gimmicky games are said to be "more of a toy than a game." Mousetrap is perhaps the most famous gimmick in board game history. A note here: gimmicks can be fun, like assembling and running the mousetrap, but are not fun for the reason that the game is supposed to be fun. The problem with the "more of a toy" critique is that consumers may feel like victims of false advertising if the game they bought is less interested in being a game than they were led to believe. I think that Funkoverse did a great job subverting this trend: all the characters are toys, but the game is clearly a game first and foremost. 

Ultimately, gimmicks will be called out when they lack integration into gameplay. So, what does integration look like?

Integrated elements are both cool-looking and functional. 

Integrated elements add more perceived value than cost (in either price or frustration). 

Integrated elements make a game more usable. 

Integrated elements reinforce the idea that the product is a game first. 

The Purpose of this Blog

It may be a little late a year and sixty entries in, but I want to spell out my intent for this blog. 

First, I have no intention of spending much time on mechanisms and the technical aspects of designing a game system, core loop, etc. There is already so much information out there about the basics of designing a game, and I don't see a need to add much to that conversation. Besides, I'm not about to set myself up as an expert when I didn't know the term worker placement until two years ago. (The posts I do have about mechanics, Action Categories and Acquisition: Cards, are tools I use in my own designs. So, any mechanism posts have to wait for me to develop a tool I then feel compelled to share.)

Rather, I view what I write about here as supplemental material: it should not replace the traditional approach to designing games but add to it. As the industry grows, the goal is no longer to design good games but to design great ones. Innovative mechanics are only one part of how that can happen. I'm here to break down the aesthetic, thematic, and experiential components that make designs memorable. 

I don't separate my critiques or advice by whose job it is. I view a published game as a whole, designed product. However, just because you aren't in charge of the final aesthetics of a game doesn't mean that you shouldn't learn about usability, layout, or visual balance. Cross-training in related areas of design will make you a better designer. Not only that but becoming a better visual designer will help you produce better prototypes when pitching to publishers. Developing your aesthetic understanding will help you hire artists to match your product vision if you are self-publishing. In short, I don't think there is a part of the process that designers shouldn't consider (or at least be aware of) and that knowledge should be reflected in their designs.

This blog is primarily focused on designers, but I am also interested in the broader conversations of where the industry is going and the prevailing models and theories emerging about board game design. I am firmly in the camp that games are art. As a professional in the arts, I believe board games are in an exciting place where creators right now have an opportunity to shape the industry and the art form to avoid problems encountered in other fields. 

Beyond industry development, I am excited to watch board game design theory develop in real time. I started this blog after watching people struggle to describe concepts in game design that I already had a language for, thanks to art and theatre classes. In general, I write about concepts that I haven't seen analyzed in depth elsewhere. For instance, I probably won't engage much with the theory of fun or flow states because that ground is already well trod. I'm learning as I go, but I prefer to explore topics that I haven't seen dealt with in the board game sphere. As a result, much of what I write is a record of my explorations into various concepts and how they apply to board games or attempting to better define concepts already used in the hobby. 

Who is this blog for? Me, mostly. It's far easier for me to talk concisely in person about game concepts if I've already written 1k words on the topic. Designers, certainly. But this blog is also for anyone involved in the creation of a board game or who wants to understand some of the more ethereal aspects of game design. 

Going forward, you can expect more of the same from this blog: new posts most Mondays unless I'm on vacation or busy. More meditations on theme, art, and experience. A few announcements about the other things I've been doing in the board game space. 

I'm looking forward to this year and I hope this blog can continue to offer useful insight to designers of all experience levels. 

More Ways to Create Resonance

This is a follow up to this post about resonance in board games. In that post I used Tokaido as a benchmark; in this one I am using Everdell. What I like about these games is the variety of ways they create resonance. 

One thing that I want to clarify is that familiarity creates resonance. In my first post on resonance, I discussed universal human experiences like relationships as ways to create resonance. However, universal experiences are a subset of familiarity when it comes to why certain things resonate. Familiarity is the major creator of resonance. IPs resonate more with players when elements of the game closely resemble the original property. When considered in this way, resonance is not just an emotional impact but a reminder of that which is familiar. (Of course, familiarity is integral to emotional impact. Hence my appeal to universal human experiences.)

A quick note: familiarity does not exclusively mean mundane. Etherfields evokes the familiarity of fears and dreams (by all reports) while weaving a fantastical world unlike anything seen in the hobby before. While mundane experiences certainly resonate, so can fantastic ones. 

Evocative actions resonate by helping to integrate the theme with the mechanics. "Placing a piece" is not as evocative as "building a house." "Exploring" is better than "moving." Words for actions should never obfuscate mechanics but should still provide opportunity to create resonance. 

Beyond action names, the writing in a game (and in the rulebook!) is an opportunity to evoke the intended experience of the game. Bad rulebooks are beginning to be seen as inexcusable, but I would extend that to bad writing in general. Bad flavor text creates fractures in the game experience where good flavor text could be creating resonance. I know publishing budgets are tight, but what we're talking about here is ten dollars per 100 words. [NB: I'm available to write your flavor text/rules fluff/KS world-building lore. Hire me.] Quality standards are increasing as the hobby develops, and I predict that "bad writing" will replace "bad art" as a common production complaint, especially since art standards have already risen so much. 

Artwork can leverage familiarity beyond just creating mood and atmosphere. For instance, most people who discuss Everdell will bring up Wind in the Willows or Redwall. The art style and theme combine in a way that resonates because it is familiar. In this case, the art evokes childhood properties which creates expectations as to what the world of Everdell should be like. Of course, that means the art should match the experience of the game. (Unless you are Leder Games, who are masterful at mismatching art with gameplay to create a better overall experience.)

Speaking of expectations, I want to return to relationships for a moment. I have written before about how powerful including relationships between characters in board games can be. However, relationships can be considered more abstractly to be how elements of the world interact with each other thematically. We are used to seeing how pieces interact mechanically, but that does not automatically create a relationship thematically. Everdell's cards are a web of relationships: between townsfolk and buildings, buildings and resources, cards and events. Very few games approach their world by saying, "Of course the post office needs a post master." Everdell does this with every card. The expectation of the game is that buildings exist to house inhabitants. How many city-building games feel inhabited? Not many in my experience. 

Tactility creates resonance by reminding players of the real version of what they are touching. The best example of this is the squishy plastic berries in Everdell. Why do the berries squish? Because berries should be squishy. Does this affect the game mechanically? No, but it affects the game experientially. Again, familiarity can create emotional impact. I am irrationally attached to those berries. Just because my attachment is irrational doesn't mean the inclusion of the berries in the game is. Giving players reasons to love your game is a good investment when it is effective. 

Lastly, I want to briefly touch on meaning. We are in an era where board games are beginning to explore serious themes. Ideas and emotions present in a game's theme can give a game a deeper meaning. It's harder to make players cry than it is to make them laugh. Deeper meaning can increase immersion (transportation) and also increase player investment—how important the game is to them. This is something I want to explore more in future posts, but for now I wanted to draw attention to this avenue for resonance. 

I had started making notes for this post to explore what makes games evocative. I'm not sure that 'evocative' is any different than 'resonant.' Players react to what they understand. When we evoke the familiar, it resonates in the player.