Bioshock

In Bioshock (X-Box 360, 2007), the player’s avatar is a plane crash survivor who has happened upon a fallen civilization of objectivists. The civilization has deteriorated because its individuals have become insane after having genetically altered themselves (for improvement). Admittedly, the art deco setting (you are surrounded by marble floors, columned rooms and art deco-esque sculptures) and the Ayn Rand/objectivism references add a level of depth to the game (i.e., it feels more “grown up” than some other games and adds a sense of intellectualism). Although somewhat dated, a 1999 survey performed by the Interactive Digital Software Association (IDSA) found that “Many entertainment software users are well-educated. Three-quarters (74%) have attended some college, earned a bachelor’s degree, and/or completed postgraduate work (Kelly Anders, “Marketing and Policy Considerations for Violent Video Games,” Journal of Public Policy & Marketing 18.2, 1999, 270). I found this figure fairly interesting because I often associate video games with immaturity, a hobby that people just “grow out of.” I’ll credit the game’s creator(s) then with raising the intellectual bar; whether or not every player understands the Ayn Rand references, I commend the creators’ attempts to incorporate sophisticated philosophy into the game.

Bioshock manages to succeed in evoking a sense of psychological fear and surprise/pop out horror: like the members of the fallen civilization, your character begins to inject himself/genetically alter himself to improve his fighting skills. Although your avatar benefits from these “plasmids,” you, as a player are aware of the fact that you are destroying your self and risking the loss of your sanity.

In one “move,” your avatar is given a blue, glowing ball/orb; as a result of the use of this ball, the avatar’s hand gets covered in pus and eventually sprouts boils/blisters that explode and shoot out pus. It is exceptionally disgusting.

Bioshock also offers some creepy villains. I found the genetically altered young girls who are guarded by large, powerful robots (whom you must defeat to reach the girls) especially disturbing. First off, they almost look like caricatures of little girls: their hair is in pigtails and they wear cute short-sleeved dresses with white aprons. Secondly, if you successfully defeat the robot and get to a girl, you are given the choice of killing her or “saving” her. This repeated moral dilemma demonstrates an attempt on the creators’ parts to add depth to the game: this decision distances Bioshock from other videogames that consist of mindless killing.

Sensory Engagement in Fatal Frame II

Joanne made a previous post about sound in horror games and inspired me. Typically, engagement with the senses in horror games is used as a method of immersion. Flickering lights, pounding heartbeats, controller rumble are all aimed towards a fear-inducing sensory response. The horror atmosphere depends on these cues. The moaning cry of the witch in Left 4 Dead immediately changes the mood of the game (Kent's example in his comments about players going into "witch" mode). The hand-buzzing shake of the controller as a meth-head pummels you mercilessly in Condemned 2 brings reality to the on-screen actions. While suspending disbelief is usually considered a requisite for playing supernatural horror games (saying there's no such thing as ghosts when one strangles you to death doesn't really work), there is no lying to your senses. Sensory engagement makes fear real.

Yet for Fatal Frame II, the sensory cues have a more practical use than just scaring the "bejesus" out of you. FF2 uses conventional horror genre sensory engagements and incorporates them into its combat system. Cues from sight, touch and sound, which normally would be used to scare players, are now used as a method to defeat the game's enemies. Take for example, Mayu's heartbeat. Enemy ghosts are often incredibly difficult to target. They hide inside walls, they constantly shift directions and sometimes they even make decoys of themselves to trick you into attacking the wrong spirit. The sound of Mayu's pounding heart offers a counter-strategy to ghost attack patterns. Mayu's heartbeat works along similar lines as the game "hotter and colder." With each step towards the ghost, the school girl's cardiovascular system goes deeper into overdrive. It also works even when Mayu has her back turned to the ghost. The game uses a filament that turns red whenever Mayu is directly facing a ghost, however because ghosts will often teleport right behind you, the filament isn't always an accurate indicator of an enemy's proximity.

Once you have the direction and location of a ghost, it's time to use the "camera obscura," introducing even more sensory involvement into the combat apparatus. In camera vision, sight, sound and touch become essential to the exorcismal process. Shooting ghosts is all about waiting for the most opportune moment to strike. Knowing exactly when to pull the trigger is a function of the on-screen sensory cues. The capture ring, a circle that gets progressively brighter as Mayu approaches the apparitions, dominates the screen. Intensity builds as you and the ghost in towards each other; light moves clockwise around the ring as it charges attack power. As you move closer and the capture circle starts to charge, the controller shakes in spasms and the screen starts to hum in a menacing purr. When the capture ring reaches full power it will flash reddish-purple in what the game calls a "shutter chance," giving the player an opportunity damage the ghost. While all of this might not sound that scary, the gameplay experience is an entirely different story. Facing the spirits of FF2 is a chilling feat. Your senses are overwhelmed with tension building cues.

But it would make sense that so much of the combat system depends on this sensory overload considering its overall attitude towards fighting style. Combat in FF2 rewards players who are willing to scare themselves silly. The most damage is given to shots called "fatal frames," pictures taken in a split-second where the player can go no closer without getting attacked. Fatal Frame 2 allows sensory engaging horror conventions to exist as part of both gameplay and atmosphere.

You? Kill Me? I don't think so!

As Kent pointed out in an earlier post, horror games usually involve a lot of killing. Splicers, ghosts, zombies, alien zombies, supernatural supersoldiers, I've killed 'em all. Gameplay in horror games usually consists of two things: killing and puzzle solving. However, while dispatching enemies in gruesome ways is the norm, there is one convention that quells itchy trigger fingers: the invincible miniboss. For me, interacting with these characters produces some of the the biggest freak out moments you can come across. Let me provide a few examples:

Dead Space: Das Über-morph
After having your first conversations with the maniacal Dr. Kyne, he sets his ultimate creation, a bio-regenerative necromorph, at your heels. When Kent faced this beast, he went for the traditional method of zombie slaying. Legs and arms were diced, only to be replaced with glistening scythes. Quickly running out of ammunition, Kent became Purina Zombie Chow. Facing this monster head-on isn't an option; fleeing for your life is. For the rest of the chapter you are chased by this lurking horror. No room offers sanctuary; lock the door behind you and he'll follow you through ventilation shafts. Eventually you thwart Kyne's creation by freezing it in a cryochamber, offering a well deserved lull after the twenty minute fleeing spree.

Fatal Frame II: Einstein Ghost and Sae
FF2 has two invincible enemies: a white-haired banshee reminiscent of a certain astrophysicist and a girl wearing a blood-stained kimono. The "camera obscura" does not work against either; both will kill you instantly if they touch you. Again, the only option is flight. However, each of these encounters has its own reason to be additionally frightening. In order to traverse one of the mansions you have to walk through the room with the Einstein ghost. The second time you go through the room, you will have played for around 45 minutes without saving. Having that much progress lost by a single touch from a rotting spectral hand is terrifying in itself. There is weight to your chase through the room; each step is closer to freedom and relief. What makes Sae so scary is that you have to solve puzzles while trying to escape. Running into a locked door while a laughing ghoul limps towards you is suffocating. The sensation of being trapped is tangible as you look for the door key.

Condemned 2: The Grizzly Bear
I'm not particularly sure why, but there is a section of the game where a bear breaks into a building and chases you until you either are tackled and eaten or find a way to kill it. There is no option to fist-fight your way out of it. But running is only half of the solution. You have to lock doors and push objects in front of holes in walls. Covering all points of entry grips you with immersive fear.

There is a common theme among these examples: invincible enemies require an immediate shift in gameplay style. If mowing through enemies is the solution players are most comfortable with, taking that particular method of progression away is a jarring and effective way of eliciting fear. Moreover, running away and being chased reminds players of their own mortality. The weight of every thumbstick movement and button press is magnified. If the fear takes hold, it is difficult to make precise actions (think of all the scenes in horror films when the victim struggles to put a key in a door). Encounters such as these make players lose their cool when direct action is needed most.

From Tin Can To Tank: A Dead Space Story

After my demo yesterday, it became clear to me that Dead Space was not the horrifying experience it once was. My first interaction with the game was a demo called "Dismemberment." The demo begins with Isaac standing in a narrow corridor. He is alone; his pounding heart the only sound. Isaac soon receives a message about combat: shooting "necromorphs" in the head is as useful as a water balloon in a gunfight. "Strategic dismemberment" is the name of the game with these underfed humanoid zombie-type alien creatures. Isaac eventually makes his way to a door that asks, "Open?" He steps through into an open chamber looking into the quiet indifference of space. At this point, I am confident that I can take down whatever the game throws at me. This quickly changes. Before I can even look at my map, three necromorphs charge with lunatic speed. Unfamiliar with the controls, my fingers stumble to find the proper "raise gun" and "shoot" combination. With no target reticle I struggle to line up the three laser sights of my plasma cutter onto zombie flesh. My first shots go wide, ammo is wasted with each panicky pull of my trigger finger. The necromorphs make first blood, swarming around me, slashing mercilessly. I attempt a mêlée attack to get some breathing room: futile. I'm doomed. Health drains from the iridescent notches on my spine like azure ocean water during a fading tide. I die; torn to pieces for the beasts to share.

I play the demo a few more times, each with better results. When I finally beat it, I'm given a wonderful surprise. As I leave the room a scripted event initiates. A huge, tentacled zombie with fangs snatches me and lifts me into its maw headfirst and legs kicking. A gory rainbow of blood and guts splatters on the screen.

It wasn't until I joined this experiment group that I took another trip to the USG Ishimura. Honestly, I was too scared to go back. Dead Space is frightening; for many reasons. Yet, the more I played and the further I progressed through the storyline, the less scared I became. When you first arrive on the vessel, the vastness and the detail of the surroundings are overwhelming. Moreover, you begin the game without a weapon. It is easy to feel like you don't belong in this place. Vulnerability was essential to the purity of my horror. The "plasma cutter" is the first gun you start with and while it may be a powerful weapon when fully upgraded it feels like a peashooter. Each necromorph takes at least three shots to its weak points before it goes down but can take as many as six if your aim is lacking. Couple this with a limited ammo supply and you've got a steady source of tension. Unfamiliarity with the look and feel of the Ishimura also creates a terrifying atmosphere. Even when necromorphs are absent, the cold silent beauty of the ship's rust-hued steel is haunting. It's a lonely place; the halls that once echoed with the dull reverberations of the crew's babel is now devoid of noise except for the hum of machinery and your footsteps. Meetings new enemy types also makes the initial phase of the game unnerving. "Lurkers," "slashers" and "leapers" are just a few of the necromorph variations that you encounter throughout the game. Each requires a slightly different way of targeting their limbs and each has its own attack patterns. They keep you on your toes.

Yet the novelty of these elements and their terrifying effect is transient. The sense of vulnerability that dominated the game's exposition and early rising action is lost. One major component of this loss is the ability to upgrade your items and rig and collect money and ammunition. By the seventh I had a fully upgraded plasma cutter that could kill a necromorph in only two shots, the maximum capacity for health and air and a half-upgraded "contact beam." In addition to this, I had purchased a higher level suit that had increased damage resistance and more item slots. With a vast store of "credits," the in game currency, I never felt like I would run out of health packs or plasma rounds. This effectively made me "invulnerable." While suffering blows from slashes and projectiles still influenced me by making me play defensively at times, the experience wasn't nearly as scary as it once was. Matt discussed earlier in one of his posts that being able to die adds a tangible level of fear to gameplay. I support this claim fully. Being a tank takes the sting off the bite of a zombie. By the time I had reached the end of the game, my damage resistance was so high that it took a zombie that was feasting from my neck over a minute to drain my health to zero. Dying in this instance becomes something more along the lines of funny or pathetic: "You died when you had the 'tank suit' and 'steam punk force gun'?!!!"

Another aspect of the "death of the scary" is that gameplay and exploration can get a bit repetitive. Objectives in the game are always centered on fixing something or getting access to new areas or sending distress calls for help. Even while the game offers exquisite visuals and fair amount of diversity to the settings within the craft, it requires you to do a lot of backtracking. Seeing the same place with slightly different enemies is not enough to spice up the scare factor. Similarly, while there is diversity among the enemy models, there is never really any substantial doubt as how to kill them. Shoot the limbs, or shoot the bright yellow areas (that practically scream "point gun here, dummy!"). Even the boss fights, while visually impressive due to their large scales, don't offer much in terms of originality. If you see a tentacle, it probably is going to hit you or grab you. If you see a propane canister, use telekinesis to chuck it towards the yowling baddy.

This is not to say that Dead Space isn't a blast. It's fun, the controls are tight, the visuals are unbelievable, the sound is rich and diversified and the story lingers with you. Dead Space is a great game, it just stops being the horror fest that it starts off as.

Screens and Screams: Condemned 2 and Dead Space

My postmodern sensibilities take in a television screen represented on my television screen without a moment’s pause. Our contemporary depictions of realistic or fantasy worlds (in games, movies, or any fiction) is inundated with technology: screens, cameras, weapons, computers, phones. The use of in-screen screens in digital games asks questions about our survelliance culture and the existential crisis of digitally mediated lives. In horror games, screens serve to mediate the player’s relationship to danger and vulnerability by removing the three dimensional rendered space and replacing it with an effectively 2-d “break” from the game. These screens are experienced in many manifestations: inventory management abstractions of a backpack or briefcase, diegetic screens like computer monitors or television screens, or cut scenes.
As discussed in my previous posts, the ability of a game to really ‘horrify’ its players is closely tied to the continuinty or discontinuity of gameplay and how that serves to meet or defy gamic expectations. A “pause” moment, whether offered through an inventory screen, a save point, or an embedded ‘diegetic’ moment like the elevator rides of Dead Space, offers the player a moment to collect themselves and to place the scary experience in its unscary context: a watched and controlled screen.
In my short experieince with Condemned 2, my own television screen was prohibitively dark and the brightest object I came across in the game was a static, fuzzy TV screen. TVs are interspersed throughout the game and are used to transmit information to the character. Grab the antennea, adjust until the signal is received, receive message or information. Sometimes it is news of the impending apocalypse, sometimes it is a direct message from the apparent villian. This villanous communication (a puppet or mask-like face on a grainy TV screen) is seen ad infintum in the Saw horror movie series. In Saw, victims awake to a recorded tape or TV screen through which they receive instructions of how to play the “game” of torture they are trapped into. The Saw series also makes use of multiple screens for survelliance, blurring the identity of the cops and villans as both use television screens for survelliance or communication. My drunk avatar’s manipulation of the TV’s bunny ears as I manipulate the avatar through the frame of my own TV could be disquieting, but my familiarity with games, self-referential mediums, and the TV screen as an effect communicator of short-and-fast bits of information mutes any potential existential horror. The ‘commercial’ age, home-growing ADD and ADHD through its 10 second montages, breeds this familiarity with the TV screen as this type of communicator of information.
Dead Space, however, incorporates digital screens within the game in innovative and effective ways. The unbroken gameplay, resulting in part from effective use of in game screens, creates a scarier and stronger experience. In Dead Space, the player can manually rotate the POV of the camera, so that the viewed screen is seen as a holographic three-dimensional plane projected immediately in front of the character. The player is given a subjective shot of what the character might see (an information scene, but not the associated non-diegetic pause of gameplay). The spaceship environment of Dead Space itself contains many in-game screens. There are fuzzy, static, sepia-colored screns that give a dully lit background to the rooms and halls. Lines of unreadable text constantly scroll downwards at different speeds on semi-translucent hallways. A dark character can be seen lurking behind the faux-information screen. Many of the walls are columns of scrolling information, undecipherable “text” that suggests information without providing it. Video Logs or Audio Logs left behind by the long-dead inhabitants are avaliable to the character during moments that act as ‘cut scenes’ or ‘loading scenes’ in the game. For example, the elevator ride is essentially a “load screen;” it serves as a low-intensity wait screen between two areas of gameplay. Keeping the gameplay as seamless as possible and removing the “cut scene” as the only way video is portrayed to the character and player keeps the player engaged, alert, and provides a contiguous enviromental narrative that more fully immerses the player. Dead Space’s weapons shows the amount of ammo left on a number on the gun itself, the spine of your space suit has four glowing meters that describe your health, and additionally the suit has a “stasis” meter, a special ability that powers up much like “mana” or “MP.” This elimination of the need for a heads-up display also changes the player’s interaction with her screen: the flatness of the screen is obscured and challenged by only showing rendered, playable, three dimensional space that the character can always inhabit.
These screens are all familiar, expected, and easily accessed. The “screen-within-a-screen” itself does not impress, but rather the intimacy and disinterest the player experieinces managing, investigating, and ignoring the various frames is characteristic of the relationship between player and screen. When a non-diegetic screen pauses the game, the player is given a moment of safety. Managing resources and reactions in real time are another part of the immersion of Dead Space. The more internal diegetic experieinces (loading, inventory managment, video communication) happens without pause. Condemned 2 and the Saw movie series provide examples of non-innovative use of TV screens within horror games and movies, while Dead Space provides creative solutions that dramatically improve gameplay and the contiguous ‘horrifying’ experience.

Final Post: Affective response in Horror Games.

Sorry for the reverse order...

While this may already be incredibly obvious, playing horror games is a completely different experience than playing any other game genre. After more than an hour of Fatal Frame II or Dead Space, I begin to feel tired, anxious and downright freaked out. Simply put, even if I want to keep playing, I am compelled to stop. My “affective response,” the unquantifiable rush I get from playing these games, causes me to abort play and step away from the gamespace. Yet from my experience as a gamer, this relation between affective response and player is unique to the horror genre. Shooting “grunts” in Halo 3 or doing backflips in Tony Hawk’s ProSkater effect compelling (or even better, propelling) affective responses. These games draw players forward through their diegesis with gameplay and affect working in unison. Contrastingly, in horror titles, gameplay and its associated affect is one that hampers progression through gamespace, forcing individuals to experience the games in episodic, stressful bouts.

According to Eugénie Shinkle, “affective dimensions” cannot “be programmed into a game” but are “nonetheless vital to gameplay” (Shinkle 22). I tend to disagree with this statement, however. I think the affective response in horror games is programmable to gameplay elements. Rather than being merely our “meaningful interaction” with semiotic images (which certainly is a scary experience in its own right), affect in horror games is fundamentally tied to a convention of gameplay elements, specific to the genre.

Let us draw our attention to Halo 3, an action game that (while exhilarating) is not very frightening. Traversing the linear space in H3 is more or less the same as any other FPS. Travel here, kill x enemies of y-type with z weapons until you reach the next checkpoint. Its simplicity is soothing. The gameplay leaves no unanswerable questions. Where is the next checkpoint? You’ll find it after a certain distance. How do I defeat this type of enemy? Keep shooting until it’s dead, and if that does not work, find a weak point in its armor? The simplicity and assuredness of the gameplay draws its players forward feeling confident. Even at the hardest difficulties, where a factor of uncertainty comes in with respect to reaching checkpoints and killing enemies, the gameplay elements remain fundamentally unchanged; death is simply a teaching device for the next attempt.

Now let’s take a look at Fatal Frame II. Playing the game for extended periods takes guts of steel (or a walkthrough and a nightlight); almost every element of its gameplay produces fear and apprehension. Taking the role of a young Japanese girl has a very different feel than that of the Master Chief. Instead of rocket launchers and assault rifles, Mio’s arsenal is limited to the “camera obscura,” a camera with exorcismal power. Fighting ghosts in FF2 is one of the most frightening combat systems in a horror game I have come across. Exorcizing ghosts requires the player to get as close as possible to the spirit without taking damage. Once Mio is rubbing noses with a mutilated spectral remnant, she has a split second to take the picture called a “shutter chance.” If you fail, the ghost will lunge at you, leading to one of several gruesome attack cinematics. The fighting alone is enough to make you drop the controller and turn off the system.

However, there is another form of resistance between gameplay and affect. Certain gameplay elements push you forward through the diegesis, acting against the tidal forces of the “horror” affective response. One example of this is the style of saving in horror games. Horror games such as Dead Space, Fatal Frame II, and the Resident Evil series all use “save stations,” checkpoints that require manually saving your progress at a given time and place in the gamespace. While playing FF2 with some group members, I spent the last quarter of the session just trying to find a save point so that the hour or so of progress since my last save wouldn’t be lost. After being scared out of my wits for an hour, I no longer wanted to play. Yet, the game offered no other alternative but to keep progressing through the plot to find somewhere to save.

From this observation, I believe that horror games develop counter-strategies to aborted gameplay. Manual save stations are just one of these gameplay mechanics to prevent individuals from leaving the gamespace before the diegesis has ended. Without sufficient strategies, players would never complete the game (this has happened with me on more than one occasion). The affective response of horror games is that of paralyzing fear, which peaks at a time when an individual will stop playing the game. This appears to be counter-productive to a business model. Why would people buy games that they are never going to beat, or for that matter, games that prevent people from playing them? The answer is not entirely clear to me, but I believe that it is through motivating gameplay mechanics that horror games can overcome this problem.

Final Post-Joie

Like I too am concerned with what constitutes a horror game. My focus has been only on how interact a games has to be for the person to actually experience any kind of fear. Does the player actually have to be involved in the action or can just watching the action elicit the same kind of fear? While I know some people in have discussed movie watching and game playing I always thought the point of game playing was that the player is not passively watching, but actively engaging. Thus, I want to focus on the idea that there are to types of game play that I have encountered in the horror genre that both want the player to feel fear and be immersed into a setting of fear.

In games such as Fatal Frame there is definately a call to action. If you do not actively pressing buttons then you will die. Thus, the game brings in two elements that they want you to fear: the first being the death of the character and the second are the ghost that you confront in the game play. I have always been interested in the impact on the dying character on the player. Could the creators as a primacy source of fear? Well why not. There was one instance when I was playing a game in a group setting where the group I was playing could not find a way to confront a specific danger. The death was instantaneous and the danger that we were no fronted was a ghost that we had already seen before, either way it became known as the “death room”. We had died more than once, but each time we were presented with the idea of death everyone would get anxious and frightened? What is it about the connection that we have to the character and playing the game that causes people to so connected to the character that they don’t want to die?

The next kind of game play I have experienced was while playing The Path. In this game you are asked to stop any controller movement in order to move on with the game. So where is the fear? In this case the player is not involved in the action like Fatal Fame. The game wants you to be a spectator, but why? My thought is that there is something different about the type of fear the maker wants you to get involved in. in this game there is a message to get across and perhaps if the player is not watching and paying attention then you lose parts of the message. I just wonder what the difference is from a game with a narrative scene? Why not let the player be involved in the action and break up what every going on by adding a small descriptive scene. What is the significance to fear? My thought is that we are dealing with a different type of fear from the gory one of before. I have hinted on this in a previous post, but I think that this kind of fear is deeply embedded in the in our sub conscious. The notion that there are other types of fear is what makes these two games so distinct.

While it may not be a very innovative thought I feel that the horror genre has extended up on what most cinematic horror has to offer. The spectator aspect of The Path and the in action provoking aspect of games like Fatal Frame of Dead Space gives this genre more of a compelling intrigue. It makes a sort of statement that there is more than one way to be afraid. An while games like The Path may seem more cinematic, it offer one thing that movies can not. As the player you gave to actively walk the path. You have to make the choice. This is the same with all game playing. There are choices that have to be made and the world is not just something that happens, rather it is something to be engaged in. Only the player can make that choice.

Kent's final post: Cameras

Fatal Frame II and Bioshock both require the player to use a photographic camera within the game to take pictures of enemies. In Fatal Frame II, your camera is your only weapon. When ghosts attack you, you have to raise the camera to your eyes and snap some pictures of them or else they will kill you. Since your camera has “exorcismal powers,” you can “kill” the ghosts with your camera. In Bioshock, your camera is equipped like any other weapon, but it does not harm your enemies. It is a “research camera,” and if you take enough pictures you are given upgrades. Taking enough pictures of spider splicers, for example, will allow you to use their organs as medkits.

The use of cameras in these two games is interesting on several levels. The view through the camera in the game makes you especially aware that you are looking through a machine. The camera is, of course, related to cinema. When the character and player observe the world through the camera before and after taking a picture, it’s like the filming of a movie. Both Bioshock and Fatal Frame II have a very cinematic feel even without the use of the camera. FFII is clearly reminiscent of Japanese horror films, complete with creepy dead girls, a traditional village and screeching flashes of gore. Bioshock uses tons of interesting scripted events that play out behind panes of glass that you can’t get through, almost like cut-scenes. The screen of glass becomes like the movie screen. You can only watch things happen; you can’t effect them. The use of the camera reminds me that I am not only observing a movie-like scene. I am in effect also filming one. The character in the game serves as a both figure within the film, a spectator, and the cameraman.

In a game, the machine vision of the camera is combined with the subjective vision of the person holding the camera. When you move quickly with the camera equipped in Bioshock, the screen goes out of focus for a second and then refocuses. Ironically, this convincing depiction of machine vision makes me feel like I’m in the head of a person. I’ve seen real life through that lens. I’ve pointed my camera in a new direction only to have to refocus it. When my in-game eye has to make the same adjustment, it makes the game seem closer to reality.

Unlike in video games, in real life I have peripheral vision. When I raise a camera to my eyes, though, my peripheral vision is cut off. While playing games, the player’s vision is limited to the scope of the screen. When I am using a camera within a game, this lack of peripheral vision makes more sense. In Bioshock the player’s visual range is not truncated any more than usual, but the necessary restriction of vision required by a television screen seems more natural. Fatal Frame II chooses to even cut off the sides of the image that the player can usually see. Using a camera in FFII makes me feel visually claustrophobic. I know that there is something attacking me somewhere, but I often can’t find it quickly. The game makes me choose between the ability to damage my enemy and the ability to easily find my enemy. When the camera isn’t raised, the character can move faster, pivot her vision more easily and see a wider range of things, but she is totally helpless if the ghosts catch her. Ultimately, I must restrict her (and my own) vision and movement in order to defeat my enemies. Fatal Frame II uses a familiar situation—restricted range of vision caused by looking through a camera—in order to create a believable fear. In Dead Space, necromorphs can often creep up on you due to your lack of peripheral vision and the sluggish movement of the game camera. This is scary, but it isn’t scary in a realistic way. If I was actually an engineer on a space station who was being attacked by mutant reanimated corpses I would be scared, but it wouldn’t be because I was unable to see them standing right next to me! The fear created by limited vision in Fatal Frame II makes more sense than it does in Dead Space.

Looking through a real-life camera imposes a sort of heads up display over your vision. You are almost always given some sort of circle or light grid in order to help you position your shot. In some cameras, you are even shown how many photos you have left, or the current setting of the aperture and shutter speed. This is similar to the H.U.D. that almost all shooter-style video games provide (Dead Space being a notable exception). The camera-view in Bioshock and Fatal Frame II has a H.U.D. that is a cross between what you would see if you looked through an actual camera and the normal heads up display that exists even without the camera raised or equipped. Bioshock tells you how many pictures you have left and provides you with a centering grid, but it also tells you how much eve and health you have left. Fatal Frame II provides a very antique looking camera frame, the number of pictures you have left, and your health bar. It also has a light at the top of the screen that illuminates when the camera is pointed at a ghost. When a ghost is in an optimal position, the circular centering lines illuminate and the camera hums. This is explained diegetically by the camera’s supernatural properties. What are we to make of the relationship between the camera H.U.D. and the game H.U.D.? Since I am more involved with games than with photography, I tend to see the view through a camera as a “game vision.” The camera is older than the digital game, though, so perhaps game vision is in fact a form of photographic vision. In either case, the camera allows us to accept the H.U.D. as an understandable visual element within a limited perspective.

The camera lens and the television screen are both parts of machines. When I use a camera within a game, I am looking through two types of lenses. I’m seeing a mediated image of an imaginary space. I look into the screen, in which the character who I am controlling looks through a camera lens. What I see on the screen when I play a game—the heads up display and the limited vision—is familiar because of other digital and mechanical devices like cameras. It is machine vision. By rendering the game perspective through the lens of a camera, Fatal Frame II and Bioshock are able to more closely mimic and more explicitly explain our already digitally mediated visual experience of our surroundings.

Group Therapy- Joie

This is going to be the most informal of all. Sorry about that. I had a group experience about a month ago that I thought was one of the best experience playing a game that I have ever had. The game is called Fatal Frame and though there is not gore in the game. The premise is that you are a girl with your twin sister and you get lost in the woods and find this famously abandoned and deserted town. There are small pieces of narrative that are worked into the game play though flashbacks, journal entries and these creepy little stones that you can collect and put into some sort of radio that talks to you. Okay, I enjoyed the game and I felt t was very well put together, but as far as fear I am more distracted by things that are a lot more gorey.

The first time I got to play this game was in a group setting and the game became really intense everyone in the game was becoming so completely absorbed that we were all feel the same kid of fear. It seems like the only way we could experience this level of fear. So I wonder could it be possible that the only reason we reached this level of game play was that we were all together? Could it be possible that playing a game and interacting with other people males the game more intense? It seems that the answer to this question is yes. More than one person admitted that they could not play the game alone because of the fear and they felt that having other people to blanket their experience made playing the game safer for them.

There was certain amount of enhanced feeling that came with playing together. Everything that we felt we seemed to feel together. I feel that as time went on we were all experience almost the same game play. There is obviously a difference between the people that were playing and those spectating, but either way being in that setting defiantly enhanced both the horror experience. I felt the best part of the experience was actually the end when we all became afraid of dying. Everyone was animated and yelling. It was like we were all felling the same sort of anxiety over the experience and not one person in the room was left out of this sort of group trance. Had that happened I’m sure it would not have been as intense. We were feeding off of the thoughts and emotions of each other to intensify the gaming experience.

The Path

It has been a while since I’ve played The Path, but there are a couple of things on my mind about the game. Though I found the game to be very innovative I had trouble with some of the mechanisms that were involved in the game play. I have a tendency to ramble so please bear with me.
One of the things I found very strange, but still quite intriguing was the fact that actually taking the path straight to grandmother’s house with causes you to lose the game. It is as if they set up this structure for the game and then expect the gamer to challenge it. It seems to give a completely separate meaning to the path because the Path is not something created by the person not the game. In the same way though it does control your path because while you are in the woods there are certain “path” that each character can take. Certain activities or objects are designated for every character. There seems to be a paradox between playing the play that the game controls and having the power to choose the path. Interestingly enough, you can make the decision to do all or some of things designated for your character. Personally, I was more confused than anything with this aspect. The game creates an allusion for the player and the player does not know whether they are playing the game or the game is playing them.
One thing that I learned to like about the game was how dark the game is. During the running sequence it gets a lot darker to the point where it becomes hard to see where you are going. The game takes over and the player is forced into a situation where they have no control over where they go. The map they give is momentary and it feel as if there is nothing stationary in the woods. It as is if every character that you play goes into a different setting every time. This featured darkness makes the entire game more believable within the horror genre.
The game has a certain feature of the game that was a distinct feature of the game play was that when you encounter a part of the path designated for you character you have to stop controlling the character in order for them take action. This differs from the normal game play where it is up to the controller to interact with game. Therefore, the Path is more of a narrative game. It unfold the story of each girl little by little as you play and in the end you reach grandmother’s house.
I have only played one character, waiting for the end of the game to unfold was like waiting for paint to dry. It took FOREVER for the girl to reach her grandmother’s house and then when she got in there I had not idea what was going on. I think this part of the game makes the game different from anything I have experienced in this class. Everything happened so fact and the exploration to the ones death is very ominous. Its like you wonder if you could have chosen a different path that would lead to a happier ending.
I feel as though the game was more eerie than horrifying, but there is not really a genre for that. I didn’t really come away horrified. I came away more pensive than afraid. I feel like most horror anything wants you to be afraid in the moment of action. The fear in this game comes from the ambiguity. The action is not really in your face, but rather something that makes you feel weird.

Final Post: Fear and Human Nature

Several people have already raised the question of why people are drawn to horror games in the first place, and have begun to address some of the things that logically follow from such a question. These include further questions like: why is fear appealing? Why do we enjoy the anxiety and the rush and the anticipation of being attacked? Are we supposed to develop the ability to tune it all out? Or, alternatively, are we meant to savor it? If so, is our enjoyment of these frightening and frequently violent games reflective of some repressed inner savagery, some gruesome aspect that we can only indulge within the socially-acceptable and rule-bound confines of a game?

It’s a question that one could make in reference to horror movies, or – if you’re like me and have developed a crippling addiction to Law & Order SVU – crime-based TV shows that rely entirely on the capacity of humanity to do increasingly sadistic things to itself. One could conceivably even pose this question to people who rubber-neck when there’s a particularly bad accident on the highway; everyone knows that whatever is visible is probably going to be upsetting and stomach-clenching, and yet everyone still does it. Why do we like exposing ourselves to violence, gore, and horror? Why do we like to experience fear, to subject ourselves to things that we know will only serve to disturb and terrify us?

I think the sensation of fear is one that is visceral, exciting, and exceptionally human, that paradoxically reminds us of our capacity to experience and react to sensations and thus to feel alive. There’s also an element of curiosity behind playing horror games or watching scary movies – an unsettling and yet seductive feeling of how horrible and screwed up is this going to be? – that for whatever reason seems to draw us in, time and time again. I don’t particularly enjoy scary movies, and actively dislike gore, and yet I’ll still go and see the next installment of Saw when it comes out in theaters, and I’ll still remain intrigued by games like BioShock and Half-Life 2, which feature dystopian societies wrought out of humanity’s own evil and self-destructive qualities. Is this a testament to my ability to withstand that which causes me deep revulsion? Is it reflective of some deeper masochism (…I certainly hope not), or is it merely an outlet of sorts; a safe way for me (and others) to gratify a deep, internal, Heart of Darkness-esque brutality?

While one could easily argue that horror games are exciting, dynamic, and challenging in ways that test our ability to adapt and make use of what we have, I think that they also have inherent appeal beyond the simple, mindless adrenaline rush they can provide us with. On a subconscious level, we as humans are fundamentally fascinated by that which is horrifying. Or destructive. Or even bizarre. Why do shows like Intervention – which features drug addicts in the worst and most consuming throes of misery and destruction – or special reports investigating terrible murders and the disturbed individuals who commit them consistently gain such traction among the general public? We’re obsessed with the evils of humanity. We’re simultaneously enthralled and horrified by our own ability to inflict pain and misery, to dissociate ourselves from our kinder and more empathetic selves to commit terrible and “inhuman” acts. Even in horror games, when we’re theoretically battling the bad guys (and the results of their atrocities, which usually take the form of some kind of possessed mass of no-longer-humans), we’re still experiencing them, both through the game’s storyline and through our interaction with the game environment. Maybe we’re not the cause of them, but we’re still suffused with the rush and the excitement and the terror of it all.

Or what about games like RapeLay, when we are the cause of the atrocities? When we’re actively seeking a way to do something heinous and brutal? The game is completely tasteless, but if it’s just a game, then so what? Is RapeLay just a way for us to act out the kinds of storylines set into motion by the Brigitte Tenenbaums and Frank Fontaines of the gaming world – the fictional architects behind the horrors in BioShock? Do these kinds of (arguably disgusting) games merely allow us access to the other side of the philosophical battle?

Even games like Fallout 3, which have built-in rewards for moral behavior, are still frightening and engaging from a sensation-seeking standpoint, and still require us to wield enormous weapons capable of incredible destruction, and to navigate through the crumbling, eerie, end-of-the-world shell of ruined, once-glorious society. It’s scary, no doubt about it. But for some reason, the end-of-the-world, self-destruction-of-humanity routine is a continually appealing one. How many books have been written presaging a horrifying future event by which the human race authors its own demise? How much money has been made at the box office for movies that depict the aftermath of these kinds of apocalyptic incidents?

It seems that on some deep and intrinsic level we are fixated on that which is horrifying and disturbing, and drawn to experiences that will frighten (and thus exhilarate) us at our core. Perhaps it is our way of reminding ourselves that we are alive.

Final Post!! -Peyton

Aspects of Horror Games:

I’ve been asking myself throughout my blogs what it is exactly that places a game into the “horror” genre. Does it have to do with the mystical, frightening creatures? That can’t be all there is to it because then wouldn’t the Flood make Halo 3 a horror game? Is it the music? The setting? The title? Everything combined? Does a game become less scary after you have played it for a while? I feel like the more often someone plays a horror game, the less scary it will be. Once a gamer knows the ins and outs of the game- the game loses the element of fearful surprise. Some gamers claim that a game is “so scary I had to stop playing.” My suggestion is to finish playing and play it again and again. Once the game becomes routine then it can’t scare you anymore.

In some games, like Left 4 Dead, the game has many different ways the game can go so you never know exactly what is going to happen- but even that grows old after a while. Game makers predicted the methodic nature of video games and made sure that did not happen. Titles of horror video games also play a substantial role in the fear factor of games in my opinion. Not knowing what is going to happen, just knowing something is going to happen can be an even scarier concept. Walking down an empty alley, or long passageway can be extremely scary if you are expecting the worse. The wait time as the music quickens in pace with your heartbeat leads to excruciating fear that makes whatever does happen, that much scarier.

The feeling of being alone makes many situations very scary. Similar to movies, a situation where you are alone where there is scary music, and you are expecting something to happen becomes much more scary than it needs to be. Walking down an empty alley with a chatty fried who is talking about what she wants to wear the next day while Spice Girls is playing in the background is not a very scary situation.

Music plays an enormous role on making horror games scary. When the music quickens and you get that “Oh no!” feeling, you don’t want anything to happen- but you know it is coming. And sure enough, right on cue, something terrifying happens. The reason it is scary is because you know for a fact it is coming- but don’t know when. I once was watching a new movie from the Internet for free (illegal-don’t do it) but the sound was slightly off. It didn’t bother me too much until the music built up to a scary part- and climaxed before anything happened. It made the effect so much less dramatic and less scary that I decided to never watch movies off the internet ever again and always rent them legally from the store.

Horror games based on movies are an interesting category because a lot of times the gamer has seen the movie and that is why they found interest in buying the game. So, in other words, the gamer is already familiar with the plot. Knowing what will probably happen, but not how or when, is another scary element to gaming. In games, you almost feel like the situation is actually happening to you. The only positive side of gaming is that you can decide not to go through with the actions

Then again, the fact that I always am playing games from a beginner’s level might very well sway my opinion. Games are meant to be beat. The difficulty level of beating them is what makes a game fun. How can horror games capture your attention for long periods of time? By making you want to keep going, and want to win. If games are nearly impossible to beat, then that is not much fun for anyone; the same goes for if a game is too easy.

My conclusion to this whole experiment in horror games is that, like movies, what makes a game a “horror” game is the fear of the unknown. My other conclusion is that some games can have scary elements without being a horror game. Forcing me to game, like this project has, has really opened up my mind (and unfortunately my addictive gene) and made me see there are so many things out there that should not be dismissed. I just ordered my first game console- but I went with Nintendo 64 Super Mario… I think I’m going to take a break from horror for a little.

Final Post: Why Do We Like To Be Scared?

Throughout this experiment a question that I have heard repeated constantly is what makes a video game scary? What I am interested in is; why do we want to be scared? I know that some people cannot stand the idea of sitting through a horror movie, but since this genre is so popular, overall it must have some sort of pull. Additionally,  fighting and violence are, for the most part, a vital part of horror games. Why is violence involved? Do we even actually enjoy the violence? 

Perhaps this is because I am taking a course in political ideas this term, but when thinking about what is the "pull" of horror games, I could not help but relate it back to philosophy. Jeremy Bentham was a nineteenth century English philosopher who is most famous for his writings on utilitarianism; which is maximizing the happiness of an individual or a community. In other words, it is the government's role to seek pleasure and avoid pain for its people. I am in no way arguing that video games' purpose is the furthering of happiness for a community, however, Bentham's core argument--which is that it is human nature to seek pleasure and avoid pain--is definitely reflective of the horror genre's pull factor. 

People who enjoy horror games obviously receive pleasure from them, however, the emotion of fright would usually be characterized as a negative feeling. So it would seem that we can also receive pleasure from pain. So wouldn't it go against human nature to seek pain in order to gain pleasure? Not necessarily. Bentham argues that once we become more developed, when considering whether something is pleasurable or painful, we are able to use a sort of math to figure out which one wins out. In the case of playing video games, yes, we are afraid while playing them, but the amount of joy and excitement we receive from them outweighs the negative feelings. Also, what is painful to one person, can be pleasurable to another, which explain why some people do not see the joy in horror games or films. 

Horror video games and horror films are not the only place where people seek pleasure through fright. Thrill rides, like roller coasters and bungee jumping, are perfect examples of this. I have never personally experienced bungee jumping, however, roller coasters are something I am very familiar with. While waiting in line, you get the feeling of anticipation and anxiety, and when you finally are in the car, you have a last minute sense of "why am I doing this?" However, when you actually experience the ride, when you actually go over that hill and fall you are experiencing fear, but this sense of danger adds to the excitement. Everyone around you is screaming, but it is a mixture of fear and excitement all at once. It is a little twisted, but it is true. The same goes for video games. While playing, everyone is tense, and is afraid to go on and when something scary happens we immediately scream. However, these screams are immediately followed by laughter. Once again, pleasure wins out. 

There are also scientific reasons that are used to try to explain why we love to be scared. It is commonly heard that we get an "adrenaline rush" out of these experiences. This "adrenaline rush" is exactly that, the hormone epinephrine is released into our brain and prepares us for immediate action. This is explained by the "fight or flight" syndrome. When we are in dangerous situation--or we think we are in dangerous situations--our heart rate becomes faster, our vision narrows, we becomes more aware, all are symptoms that are preparing us to fight or flee. While playing horror video games, we put ourselves into a danger-like situation that--even though we know is unreal--makes us scared. It seems that fighting back--the violent aspect of these games--seems only logical. It is one of the two options that we have when we are in dangerous situations and who really wants to play a video game where you are running away from everything?

Another aspect of horror games is its violence. Video games in general have been criticized for their violence and apparent corruption of our youth. However, I don't believe that it is the violence that is necessarily enjoyed. I cannot speak for everyone, but I feel that in horror games, the player is faced with a situation and they have to survive. The reactions are indeed violent, but they are a means to an end, your survival. This kind of relates to one of Kent's posts "Okay To Kill", in that violence is morally justified because it is a form of defense. He also talked about games in which you are the instigator of the violence and do not have any justification. In the case of these games, I can personally say, that I would not enjoy them. In a response to his blog, I admitted that I would not have minded if he had decided to harvest the Little Sister, but this is because I was curious to see what that was like, and since I wasn't the one playing, I wouldn't have felt any guilt. In a game like Texas Chainsaw Massacre, I've already seen the movie and in no way am I curious as to what it is like to be Leatherface. In a game like Dead Space the reason I consider this game "cool" is more of an appreciation of the art of the game. When I see the necromorphs getting severed, I am disgusted, and I honestly do not receive any enjoyment from it. 

There are probably a million reasons why people love to be scared. However, I do believe that I have touched on an important theory as to why that is; the fright that we experience from simulated instances of danger are trumped by the overall excitement that it gives us. 

Psychological Horror in The Path

I briefly discussed The Path on this blog already, but think that it merits further mention because of the relatively unique way it elicits fear from its players. Rather than relying on violent imagery and adrenaline-fueled gunfights, The Path employs seemingly-random and psychologically-frightening imagery to force a subjective, subconscious reaction that is frequently quite disturbing but simultaneously difficult to pinpoint. It is also an extremely memorable game, which definitely stays with you long after you’ve finished playing it.

The Path isn’t a horror game in the traditional sense – the game proceeds at the pace you determine, and the lack of direction lends it a kind of aimlessness that virtually all other horror games lack (since generally horror games are fueled by a base objective to wipe out an evil, encroaching force; though the encroaching force tends to manifest itself in different ways from game to game, the need to find, fight, and ultimately destroy seems to be a fundamental underpinning of most horror games). This is completely absent in The Path.

The Path is more about exploring the very concept of fear, and what it means to different people. The game’s overall creepy aesthetic and moments of hypnotic monotony contribute to this, but at the end of the day the game seems more interested in how you interpret – or fail to interpret – what it presents.

Which is a short cut-scene that briefly (and incompletely) follows each girl’s interaction with her “wolf” (the manifestation of all her deepest fears, located somewhere deep in the woods that the game explicitly instructs us not to venture into), and then a longer, first-person journey through the bizarre and terrifying and imagery-heavy hallways of grandma’s house. It is a powerfully subjective game, in the sense that it seems to offer players the chance to explore their own fears, as they become more and more immersed in the experiences of each girl and more and more invested in the storyline which they invariably create as they progress through the game. It presents fear in its most basic and primal form, deconstructed from more complex situations into a series of terrifying and seemingly-unrelated images that allude to past experiences and are left to the player to react to and interpret. The images are frightening – there’s no doubt about that. But why they’re frightening is something that will differ from player to player. It is an abstract, almost intellectual rendering of personal fear, that is starkly different from anything that I’ve encountered in the other games I’ve played.

I think this fact is reinforced by the unsettling ambiguity surrounding each girl’s interaction with her wolf, which the game makes no effort to resolve. The complete lack of any kind of satisfying final conclusion is scary in and of itself, and it is this murkiness which the player must somehow rectify and come to terms with.

There are no zombies gushing blood from their eyes, or armored aliens wielding AK-47s, but the trippy, psychological quality of the game – which reminded me a bit of horror movies like The Ring – makes for a truly visceral experience.

What Really Makes Games Scary?

Horror is a flagship genre of entertainment in modern society, and has been for many decades. As technology has marched forward, horror novels opened the door for the incredibly popular and successful horror movie genre, which has in turn influenced the development of horror themed digital games, which are equally popular. That games can be scary is undeniable; some of the most popular game franchises in the world are horror themed; the Resident Evil and Silent Hill genres even spawned successful movies based on the games (a relative rarity in a world where games tend to based on films, not the other way around.) The real question is, why do digital horror games have such an effect on us? After playing a number of games and finding some of them scary and some of them bland, I have come to the conclusion that there are three major factors which raise our fear level: the realism of the game’s mise-en-scene, the personal connection between gamer and character, and the environment in which the game is being played.

The graphics of a digital game are always important to the overall experience, but this importance is magnified within the horror genre. I recently replayed Silent Hill 2, a game released for the Playstation 2 in 2001 by Konami. When I first played the game in middle school, I was quite scared by the creepy fog and abandoned buildings, the terrifying monsters which jumped out from around corners, and the impressive amounts of detailed gore. Upon replaying the game, however, I found that I was no longer particularly frightened by the game despite the persistence of all these scary elements (and, in addition, a rather impressive and scary plot.) The monsters now seemed outdated and blocky, and the scenery seemed bland and pixilated. In contrast, F.E.A.R., a horror game developed by Vivendi Universal for the Playstation 3, was still able to inspire some fright in me because of its impressive, state of the art graphics and sound. This is illustrative of a major point about horror games: the player needs to be scared by what they see, and if what they see isn’t realistic it won’t be particularly scary. When Silent Hill 2 was brand new, the graphics were just about as realistic as players had ever seen in a video game. Now that they are outdated, the game has lost a significant amount of its ability to inspire fear. Similarly, in 10 years we will probably look back at F.E.A.R. and wonder how we were ever unnerved by the graphics of this age. What we see on the screen is a major factor in establishing fear in the player.

The personal connection between the player and the protagonist is another crucial factor in creating fear within a horror game. In a horror film, the viewer can identify with the main characters, and this is a significant factor in generating terror; in an effective horror movie we don’t want the main characters that we have come to know and love to suffer a grisly fate. This effect is magnified in digital games because the player doesn’t just identify with the protagonist, but instead actually controls their actions. In F.E.A.R., which has a first person view, this is even more significant. The player doesn’t see an actor being chased by monsters, the player feels that he himself is at risk. In a good game, this can help establish fear significantly.

A final factor in how a digital game can establish fear is the environment in which the game itself is played. There is a palpable difference between playing a horror game in a bright room in the middle of the day with a group of friends and playing it alone in the dark in the middle of the night. This is a product of what kind of environments we associate with horror in our own minds; just as the mise-en-scene within a game affects how afraid we become while playing it, the setting in which we actually play the game has an effect. In all of my time playing horror games this term, the only time that I felt the lingering effects of fear was after playing Resident Evil 5 by myself in the dark with loud surround sound magnifying the game’s attempts to scare me. The game succeeded.

At the end of the day, all of the elements which make digital horror games scary are also elements which make a good horror movie scary. This underscores the similarity between the film and digital game genres; I believe that one would find a strong similarity between the aspects that make an action movie and an action game effective as well. Digital games may be relatively new media, but the same tricks of the trade which apply to older forms of media hold true in this new digital realm.

Expanding on the Key Elements of Horror Games

Having played and observed a variety of horror games, I thought I would expand on Jane’s “key elements of a scary horror game” and describe what conditions and components are necessary for the ultimate horror game. I recognize that many gamers would not want a game to be too scary, in the spirit of the genre I will attempt toestablish both what elements of gameplay would maximize horror and why they would do so. The most lending aspect of gameplay to horror games is the level of character identity. It is important for the player to be immersed in the gameplay and feel as though they areresponsible for the decisions and well-being of their character. Morality and diagetics are the two key components for immersion, but can be difficult to balance. The playershould first be immersed in the gameplay through the diagetics before being faced with moral ambiguities which call into question the players’ own beliefs and ideals. Thissort of examination into the player’s morals may seem to approach some ethical lines by exploiting the player’s personal judgments to enhance gameplay, but without encroaching and capitalizing on the player’s morals the player will feel detached from their character. Games use diagetics in different ways and with varying levels of success. My personal favorite, and the one which I believe should be emulated in the hypothetical “scariest game ever,” is Dead Space. With almost no interface excluded from gameplay and very few moments when the player is completely safe, Dead Space creates a constantly high tension level for the player. Menus, cinematics, and ammunition are all included within the game, and even while the character is communicating with allies she is subject to attack. The beginning of a game is also important for establishing immersive diagetics. Many games use brief cinematics along with limited disclosure of information before throwing the player directly into the game. This is a great strategy, as it allows for the establishment of a narrative while allowing the player to learn the controls through gameplay rather than directing her. Morality can be difficult to infuse into a horror game. In most cases, the scariness of a game comes from some sort of demonic or mutated creature that the player must kill. Very little moral judgment is required to kill a zombie or monster bent on devouring your flesh. However, if the game designers are not careful, the game will feel more like an action "mow-'em-down" game rather than a horror game. Resident Evil 5, the latest installment in the Resident Evil franchise, has become reminiscent of Duck Hunt at times as the player finds herself able to mow down infected humans with a shotgun rather easily. I think Bioshock successfully incorporates morality into gameplay while still maintaining a horrific gaming experience. Through the use of plasmids, Bioshock creates a moral dilemma: to what extent should the player use plasmids to increase her own strength while simultaneously running the risk of becoming corrupted by them, as did the rest of Rapture. The upcoming Bioshock 2 plans to take this dilemma a step further; the player's character, rather than an outside human, will be the "First Big Daddy," a prototype model for the Big Daddys seen in Bioshock that was never put into production by the citizens of Rapture. In Bioshock 2, when the player kills other Big Daddys and frees their Little Sisters, the player can choose to adopt the young girls and have them harvest ADAM, the building block for plasmids, from other monsters in the game. Thus the player is faced with a 3-way decision: kill the girl and harvest the maximum ADAM, free her and harvest no ADAM, or adopt her to harvest ADAM from other creatures. Once the player adopts a Little Sister, they will be able to kill or free the Little Sister at any time. By forcing the player to decide between power and personal safety, Bioshock immerses the player into the game by instituting the player's own morals. Thus, Bioshock is able to immerse the player while still providing plenty of action. This immersion, the connection the player feels with her character, is the most important aspect of a horror game. Through the use of morals, perhaps balancing immediate gain with long-term risk such as in Bioshock, the player will feel more responsible for her character's well-being and thus more frightened when her character is in danger.The atmosphere in which a game is played is incredibly important in determining the scariness of a game. While the game designers only have control over such features as music and world design, the atmosphere in which to play games is determined by the gamer herself. I conducted a brief experiment which compared heart rate with different levels of light and volume while playing the beginning of Dead Space. My hypothesis was fairly simple: the louder the volume (to a reasonable extent) and the darker the room, the higher my heart rate would be. I played the game in a large room with black walls, surround sound, and a projector. I had some difficulty decided how to actually run the test; playing the same part of a game over again would become less scary each time through so I decided to play the game continuously, breaking it up into 5 minute sections with any given set of conditions, pausing to measure my heart rate at the beginning, middle, and end of each interval and averaging the three together for a final number. I was fortunate enough to have a dimmer switch, which I tested at 3 levels: fully on, halfway on, and off, all with the speaker system turned to 20dB. The sound system was plugged into a pre-amp system which I tested at 0dB, 20dB, and 40dB, all while keeping the dimmer switch on the middle setting. I calculated my resting heart rate at 62 while sitting on the couch before beginning the game. Inevitably, I encountered more enemies in some sections than in others, but I would not run the experiment if I knew a period of rest or relaxation, such as a save point or weapons upgrade station, was near. My (average) heart rates by variable were as follows: full light--74bpm, medium light--76bpm, no light--84bpm, 0dB--76bpm, 20dB--82bpm, 40dB, 86bpm. While not being completely linear, the results show over a 40% increase in heart rate for volume levels of 40dB and playing in the dark. These results are not very surprising, but I felt there should be some empirical data to help support the claims we as a group have been making all term: the darker the room and the louder the volume, the scarier a game will be. The scariness of a game lies in both the game designers' hands as well as the players'. Immersing the player into the game and making them feel responsible for their character is left to the game designers, while the atmosphere in which the game is played is left to the player. There are many other aspects which can add to or detract from the scariness of a game, but character identity and atmosphere are pivotal to any horror game's success as a horror game.

Titles of Horror Games

My blogs are mainly all trying to answer the question what specifically it is that makes a horror game-, which I will hope to summarize my findings in my final post. This guess is about the titles of horror games. Maybe a reason some games are put into the horror category is because of their title. While trying to find our blog, I ran across another, older blog called “OMG: Horror” which talked about all of the horror games this blogger was excited about coming out. Just reading through the titles, I was shocked at the level of violence portrayed right off the bat. Titles like “Sadness”, “Witches”, “Alone in the Dark”, “Zombie Massacre”, “Siren: Blood Curse”, “Dead Space”, “Operation Darkness”, “Dead Rising”, “Left 4 Dead”, etc.

So does the anticipation of a game being scary make it more frightening? Were game makers correct in putting gruesome images on the cover alongside a scary title? The amount of blood and gore has to contribute in some amount to whether or not a game is classified as “horror,” but how much? I mean, in every game there is killing. Even in Super Mario, Mario has to hop on the little mushroom looking things that shuffle by so that they don’t hurt Mario. But in horror games, you see every little last detail of the slaying. Blood flies everywhere, your victims scream in pain, you see it all. Is that an aspect that makes it horrifying?

Camera Angles

Joanne asked a good question in response to my first post about Silent Hill 4. She asked if when the camera angles were reversed and I could only see my character from the front- if I felt more like the character or not. It is interesting the role camera angles have on the way you play. When the angle of the camera showed my character from the front and not what felt like was “behind” me, I felt like the game I turned and my character was leading me instead of me leading him. I had to trust a character, whose movements were completely controlled by me, to not lead us into danger. How does that make sense? It doesn’t- there was no way of knowing whether or not I was being led right into the enemies’ hands.
On the other hand, I found this a fascinating extra element to the game. A lot of times (playing on the easiest level at least) I have a great deal of time to prepare myself before fighting someone. I make sure I have complete health, I have whatever weapon I want fully ammo-ed up, and I will be able to take the first shot when I want to. With the camera angle facing the “wrong” direction, I had to be on guard at all times. This tactic added the element of surprise, which I had not had to deal with before. I did not particularly enjoy this element- but it was there nonetheless.
I think the camera angle I like best is when I am staring down the barrel of a gun, or at least I am holding something. When I see my whole character from behind then I feel more distant from the game. When it feels like I am holding the weapon, then I feel more in control- like the game will do exactly as I say. Obviously, I know this doesn’t make sense since the game will do what I say no matter what the camera angle- but that is the feeling I get while playing.

Creatures in Horror Games

In my opinion, one of the reason horror games are so scary is because of the creatures in them. I feel like the enemy is often an unknown creature that looks terrifying while also possessing qualities that make you uncomfortable to look at. The creatures can look like a dog or a human or a little girl, but there are qualities about them that make them abnormal in a frightening way. So, are we just afraid of the unknown? In Silent Hill 4, the first creatures you have to fight look like a sick wolf or coyote, and they are eating the remains of a fellow dead sick coyote. Now, in real life, I sure wouldn’t want to go up and pet a sick looking coyote but I wouldn’t say I was “horrified” to be near one. In fact, if you just walk by the coyotes, they don’t bother you. The reason they are so scary, though, is because they have their tongues hanging out and you are locked inside what seems like a nightmare. You have nowhere to go but forward and there is creepy music playing. So, there you are swinging away at these gross looking coyotes with your broken wineglass, or long pole (really?? Like that could really beat these guys) and somehow manage to kill them. Well, now you know that you can kill that particular character- so does that make them less scary? I think so… Now that I know more about that particular character, and most importantly that somehow my broken wine bottle can kill them, I am less afraid of them. I know what to expect from the coyotes.
The little girls in Bioshock, look like the cutest girls ever. They are suspiciously carrying what looks like a large syringe. Shortly after you first meet the little sisters, you know you do not want to be around them. They turn into evil creatures who cannot wait for your death so they can harvest ADAM from “angels” (aka corpses.)
One of my questions from the horror group’s very first meeting was “If you play a horror game more and more, does it become less scary?” I heard many people say “no.” This post inspired my idea for my final post so more on this later.

Music in Horror Games

The horror genre in general usually is usually famous for its classic music that become symbols of the genre. Like in Jaw, as soon as you hear that special build up you immediately think shark attack! Or in Psycho with its famous screech noises that makes you immediately visualize that iconic knife attack in the shower. Since music is such a vital part of the horror genre, I thought it would be interesting to explore how much of a part music and sound effects plays in horror video games.

When thinking back on the games that I've played, music doesn't immediately stand out at me in my memories. This might actually say something about its level of importance; or perhaps its because music blends into the atmosphere of the game and 

you don't immediately realize its effects. 

In Fatal Frame 2 for the majority of the time, the only sound that is heard are the footsteps of the character Mio. Since the setting is in an abandoned village, it makes sense that it should be silent. But what I find most interesting about the sound effects in this game, is that it relies on characters within the game to create the mood. For example, for a good chunk of the game we are with our sister Mayu and at times she'll say random creepy things that (in that moment) doesn't make a lot of sense to the player. Also, the sound effects of opening the door are quite creepy. The scenes in this game that have the most "sound" are the fighting scenes. The camera makes the most noise, the sound of the camera charging, and flashing. Also the sounds of the ghosts that we are fighting and the sounds of them dying. All of this adds excitement to the game and to the intensity of the fight, and as soon as you finish, it reverts back to its silence. I think that the sounds effects, not necessarily music, plays more of a role in this game. But perhaps sound effects can be considered the music of video games. 

In Dead Space, music is definitely more developed, giving it a cinematic feel. Dead Space actually has a soundtrack that was released with titles like, "The Necromorphs Attack" and  "Severed Limbs Are Hazardous Waste". Like Fatal Frame 2, things get louder when you are interact with the "bad guys", however, in Dead Space music is played throughout the game. There are definitely times when there isn't any music, but this does not leave you in silence. There is always some sort of noise occurring, things within the ship are clanging, necromorphs are slithering around. I can say that the music is most intense when danger is imminent. You can check out the theme song (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gZbpeFDLeGA&feature=related) which is spacey-eerie. 

The Path is different from the last two games that  I discussed. I'm not sure if its an Indie thing, but creep music is played throughout the entire game, or at least the parts that I've played. Unlike the other games, the music was something that I initially noticed. The song is continuously played in the background, sometimes other songs are meshed together, but you can always hear the same keys. This familiarity, makes it feel like nothing is changing, and you don't know when anything is going to change, until it does. 

I think music in video games definitely add to the environment but I'm not sure how much gamers think about the music. Do you guys care about music in video games? Do you even notice it?