Seriously My Final Post on Bioshock Infinite

*SPOILER ALERT*

 

Slate's review of Bioshock Infinite is compelling. It's a great example of a modernist critique of a postmodern viewpoint (modernists believe that scientific and social advances can save humanity, while postmoderns are disillusioned with progress and champion individual autonomy).
 

This article clarified what I did and didn't like about the game. I really liked Ken Levine's decision not to have Dewitt side with either the Founders or the Vox because neither was worthy of his allegiance. The Slate reviewer really seemed to want him to join the Vox Populi and complained that they weren't more sympathetic. This complaint is based on the premise that rebels are rarely as bloodthirsty as their oppressors--a statement that is immediately contradicted with historic examples of revolutions that clearly made things worse. Levine's decision to have everyone turn on Dewitt is called heavy-handed, but so is asking that he change a major theme just to suit one's personal politics.
 

On the other hand, the review pinpointed what's been bugging me about the ending. The Founders/Vox conflict follows the classic thesis/antithesis structure. Levine forgot that for this model to work, you need to supply a third option: the synthesis. He disdains exploring a middle way in favor of skipping straight to nihilism. This tactic contradicts the stated "Extreme ideologies aren't worthy of belief" theme because nihilism is as extreme as it gets.
 

I'm generally opposed to critiquing the game I wish they'd made instead of the game we got, but by way of friendly advice I'd suggest that Levine could resolve the paradox he walks into by subjecting his own systematic doubt to a little healthy critical thought. If he'd paused to examine the content of each ethos instead of judging them based solely on the sins of their fallible human adherents, he might have found room for a second, noble resistance movement like Gandhi's--or because FPS's do need a modicum of physical conflict--one modeled on the American Revolution which was fought with comparatively restricted continental warfare.
 

Or, to invoke my own background, he could've avoided treating religion like a monolith and answered Elizabeth's question thusly: "You're right. We don't deserve to be saved. No one does. Salvation is totally gratuitous." If your conflict hinges on the Christian economy of grace, you should take the time to understand it thoroughly. "Redeem" comes from the Latin red + emptus: "buy back". In this context it alludes to POWs or slaves being ransomed by their king, who buys their freedom not because they earned it, but out of sheer generosity. It's difficult to see how Booker never stumbled across this basic teaching. Elizabeth's ignorance is even more jarring since her theological credentials are solidly established. Thus the characters' frequent brooding over redemption strikes a sour note.

 

But because Levine's one criterion for a movement's validity (Thou shalt not kill.) is rooted in Judeo-Christian tradition, his story manages to illustrate a strongly Christian point. Money can't save us. Technology can't save us. Charismatic leaders can't save us. We can't save ourselves, and what's more, we don't deserve to be saved. Upon making these conclusions, the characters despair; thus committing the only sin that is truly unforgivable because it rejects all hope of mercy. The biblical metaphor that the hopeless would be better off drowned is then applied literally.

 

Thus Bioshock Infinite remains a masterpiece, albeit unintentionally.

Why Should I Care?

I'm the rare person who enjoys video games as a spectator sport. I'm not averse to playing them, but I get almost the same thrill from watching someone else do all the heavy lifting while I take in the narrative.

My friend Nick and I finished Bioshock Infinite last night. It's one of the games that made my list of places where visionary storytellers are migrating to. I can confidently say that it's one of the best games I've seen in years. The setting is vivid. The themes are strong. The characters are deep. I can't comment on the game mechanics, but Nick never complained.

MILD POTENTIAL SPOILERS (though if your enjoyment of games, books, and movies relies mostly on the plot, you're filling up on bread instead of character meat and thematic wine). Bioshock Infinite's ending feels rather inconsistent with its own thematic and character development. The dissonance results more from the ending's execution than its content. Having agonized over why this amazing game's conclusion felt flat, It's my opinion that the problem is a matter of stakes.

I've discussed how to end (and start) a story before. The reason it's not as hard as most people think (and why Bioshock Infinite's mishandled ending doesn't tarnish my perception of the game much) is that endings are among the least important story elements. Strong protagonists and antagonists, engaging conflicts, and fully fleshed-out themes are far more vital, as are beginnings. One relevant aspect of storytelling I haven't touched on yet is the conflict's stakes.

In brief, stakes answer the question, "Why should I care?" Conflicts can operate on two basic levels: personal and public. Personal stakes set the characters' degree of concern, while public stakes are more immediately urgent to the audience. A balance of both is essential to a story's emotional impact.

I turn again to the cultural touchstone of our times: the original Star Wars trilogy. All three films raise their public stakes as high as possible. If the Rebellion fails, the galaxy faces indefinite domination by a fascist empire with a planet-cracking superweapon. The first movie makes these consequences clear right away and draws the audience in. Not until The Empire Strikes Back are we given personal conflict to rival the military struggle. The ingenious part is how both conflicts conflict with each other in the character of Luke Skywalker. He's strongly invested in destroying the Empire, but it's made painfully clear that doing so means killing his father.

Star Wars is an apt example because I think Bioshock Infinite raises its personal stakes to heights that could have produced an Empire-level payoff. I could be wrong, but the game's public stakes never seem quite as compelling as its characters' inner turmoil (we're given visions of airships bombing Manhattan early on, but I'll admit that 9/11 somewhat desensitized me).

The game's immense personal conflicts do reach a natural conclusion some time before the actual ending. The main themes are resolved well before that. At that point, a storyteller can really call it a day any time he wants. What he shouldn't do is bet all the stakes on black when the wheel could land on red. Which in this case it does.

Don't get me wrong. Writers in any medium should take risks. Making truly revolutionary fiction requires it. But waiting till after the natural resolution of your main themes and conflicts is not the best time to risk losing the audience's emotional engagement. Pulling off such narrative sleight of hand takes absolute mastery of story structure and saintly patience. Personally, I know I'm not equal to the task.

Based on the spectacular experience he created with Bioshock Infinite, I think Ken Levine has reached that level. He's made his Star Wars. I'm raptly anticipating his Empire.

Have an opinion on Bioshock Infinite or any other high-stakes story? I await your comments.

Music Makers and Dreamers of Dreams

Last time I discussed the thematic stagnation of genre fiction. Since proper criticism balances the bad by pointing to the good, I offer the following examples of vivid counter cultural fiction. These gems don't reside where one might expect. In fact, I had to look far from the print fiction best seller lists to find them.

Today's prophets and social critics don't ply their trade through books at all. They send their messages through video games.

I said before that I'm hard-pressed to name a popular genre novel published within the last decade that transgressed convention to devastating effect. I can think of three video games released within the last couple of years that masterfully achieve this feat.

The first landmark game is Spec Ops: The Line. The genius of this title lies in its myriad layers of meaning. Superficially resembling a staid infantry combat simulator, Spec Ops: The Line achieves thematic heights to shame its more profitable brethren. The plot roughly follows Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. But by transporting the story to the current day Middle East, the narrative attains a high degree of originality. Even more intriguing is the developer's subtle use of character, dialogue, camera angles, and game mechanics to mount a scathing rebuke of turning war into a game.

Journey by That Game Company readily fills my fantasy quota. Though far more subdued than Spec Ops: The Line, Journey makes a more immediate and deeper emotional impact by stripping the classical quest down to its basic structure. Despite having no dialogue and minimal aesthetics, Journey evokes a stronger level of attachment to its setting and characters than many far more lavish games. Though grounded squarely in fantasy, Journey features a grave warning about what happens when technological development outpaces moral maturity.

Finally we come to Bioshock Infinite. As a first-person shooter, it's the most conventional title on this list in many ways. It is also the most convention-smashing game in years. Contradictions define Bioshock Infinite. The setting emulates the past but includes technology far beyond our own. Its themes condemn religious zealotry while warning against unchecked nationalism. The dehumanizing tendencies of capitalism are skewered, as are populism's brutal excesses.

Even the characters are signs of contradiction. The oft-despised buddy character trope is central to the game mechanics, but in a way that no one expected. For perhaps the first time, the AI-controlled partner isn't a burden that mucks up combat or necessitates frequent checkpoint resets by dying at the worst times. In fact, this mechanic works so well that one gets a creeping sense of role reversal. At times, the faceless main protagonist seems suspiciously like an appendage of the supposed helper character. This arrangement feels oddly satisfying.

These are the examples of challenging non-print genre fiction that stand out most in my mind. Any other suggestions?