Firewatch has been
igniting its fair share of conversation among players and game
critics alike. I've seen people discuss the “emotional impact”
this game has had on them. Combined with how closely guarded the
developers at Campo Santo were about its story and themes prior to
release, I was intrigued. Now that I've finished my playthrough, I
honestly can't say that I completely agree with my peers who have
nothing but adoration for it. While I did enjoy my time with the
game, I have a big problem with it. This leaves me with a level of
unease that has little to do with Firewatch itself and more the
reception of games like it.
When people talk
about these kinds of story-driven games, I rarely hear any form of
praise besides something along the lines of “It made me feel”, “I
was moved”, or something else that suggests that it invoked sadness
or melancholy on the part of the individual. Rarely are any other
forms of praise given on top of that. I fear that this suggests that
when we see “walking simulators” (for lack of a better term),
that we, as their audience, have this as our default reaction. I say
this not to disparage the genre, but rather to show that perhaps we
ought to expect more from them. They can be more than just a genre of
games where players wander around an environment and get told a
story. To do this, I'd like to compare Firewatch with a game, in the
same genre, that more strongly leveraged the power of the medium to
tell it's tale: Gone Home.
When exploring the
house of Gone Home, players are given clues as to the lives of the
people occupying it. While there are notes and messages scattered
about the house, there are other ways that it tells players about its
cast of characters. Even if I missed the letter to the father of the
house from his publisher, discussing how terrible the sales of his
book were: I can still understand that he is a struggling, aspiring
author by the fact that are boxes and boxes full of his crappy books
in his room. Should I have blindly walked passed the diary entries
that tell of two friends listening to rock music and playing old
games: I can still glean a portion of this by looking into her room
and seeing the CDs, radio, game console, and controllers are setup to
convey this idea. I am certainly being told the story by the various
texts being stored throughout the house. However, there's more to it
than that. The props in the space I occupy also, more effectively,
chronicle the tales of the people who live in it, and are a part of
it.
I don't get this
same feeling playing Firewatch. Instead of using context clues to
discover what is happening in the lives of the game's cast, I am
moving my chosen actor around a game board so that he may explain to
me what's going on. When I walk protagonist Henry up to a camp, he
immediately explains the significance of the props there before I
have a chance to think about them for myself. I don't need to figure
out what kind of creature shredded the tent of two missing girls in
the woods, because Henry has already come up with the idea that they
may have been mauled by a bear. I don't need to think about where the
bedsheets found at the scene came from, because Henry is quick to
remark that they were the same sheets stolen from his watchtower the
night before. I don't need to think, because the game is eager to
give me an explanation before I even have a chance to explore the
scene myself. I'm not the one poking around, seeing what the evidence
left behind says. The only thing I am to do is bring Henry to his
next destination so that he can tell me what he thinks about the
objects and props therein.
The world itself
also doesn't help to assuage this notion that the player is just
Henry's driver. Between set-pieces, players will often end up doing a
lot of walking, using a map and compass as their guide. Aside from
the scant few supply caches, the area is surprisingly vacant. There
isn't even only a few woodland creatures in sight. It's hard to hold
this against the game, since the isolation inherent to being a Fire
Watchman is part of the point. Yet, this does mean that there are
long periods, sometimes of 10 or more minutes (more if the player
somehow gets lost or doesn't know where to go) where nothing is
happening. Since my playthrough took only about 4 hours, that means
that a significant portion of time is spent just walking without even
a little interaction with the world. With a few good lines and a nice
use of props, Firewatch could use some of this downtime to better
sell the protagonist's slowly developing cabin fever, bettering their
time economy.
Again, I go to Gone
Home as an example of the importance of compactness of level design.
That entire game takes place in one single location: A house in the
suburbs. Even though the house is a larger than the average home,
it's still not a big space when compared to the kinds of video game
levels most players are used to. But despite it's diminutive size,
there are a lot of stories to learn about in this suburban home. This
is because the area is compact, limiting the amount of downtime that
players experience. Lacking downtime, the chances of players
suffering boredom are reduced, keeping them more engaged in the
events unfolding.
I'm not at all
trying to suggest that Firewatch is a bad game, or a lackluster
experience. Despite the problems I've talked about, the writing
itself kept me hooked throughout my playthrough, even if it fizzles
out towards the end. On top of that, the voice acting and direction
are some of the best I've heard in a long time. However, it could be
so much stronger of an experience than it already is. It could be
more than just a story happening while players move from place to
place.
I admit, as I write
this, I've no idea what the reaction to this article will be. What I
do know is that I am not content with being a passive participant,
eagerly ferrying my protagonist from one location to the next so that
the plot can unfold without my influence. Doubly do I feel this when
I've little other form of interaction with the world beyond that.
This is not an article suggesting that so-called “walking
simulators” don't deserve to be called games. Rather, this is to
calmly and constructively encourage them to do slightly more with
their layout and world design to better engage players in the kinds
of stories they wish to tell with that central mechanic. Strong
writing is one thing, but the most important thing about an
interactive experience is the interactive element.
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