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.