Ye Olde Staging Point

Mario and Luigi. Lara Croft. Duke Nukem. Gordon Freeman. Guybrush Threepwood. Link. Jim Raynor and Sarah Kerrigan. Samus Aran. The Nameless One.

If you recognized more than three of the above names, you're probably a gamer. They're the names of imaginary characters--virtual alter-egos who, for the sizeable percentage of Americans that grew up playing computer and video games, showcase the virtues of heroism as strongly as any Hollywood action avenger or pop-fiction protagonist. Like the heroes of literature or film, they span the range of character archetypes--some are goofy or comical, others over-the-top and ubercool; still others are the everyman, finding strength to meet an unasked-for challenge. They're video game heroes, and while their faces and attitudes are stamped permanently into the memories of gamers throughout the world, they've managed to avoid any serious notice or engagement by the critics of popular culture or the experts of academia.

I've never accepted the conventional wisdom that video or computer games (hereafter referred to as simply "video games") are merely passive entertainment, an all-glitz-no-substance means of whiling away an afternoon. While there is much to be said about the carthartic and entertainment value of video games (and indeed many games, either through mediocrity or deliberate intent, never rise beyond the level of "brain candy"), I tend to approach games with the same level of seriousness I would bring to a movie or a novel. Booting up a computer game for the first time is like watching the opening scenes of a film or reading the prologue of a book: I'm filled with eagerness to meet the story's characters, excitement at the prospect of experiencing firsthand the product of a skilled artisan's imagination, and anticipation at the thought of meeting and overcoming what challenges the game will place before me. Central to the experience of a truly great game is the cast of characters who participate in and create the story--while many games get away with invisible protagonists or cardboard characters, the greatest games are focused around heroes whose personalities, quirks, and abilities capture our imaginations and inspire us to immerse ourselves in the world as they perceive it. The greatest game heroes even transcend the boundaries of their gameworlds and become icons for entire genres or styles, just as Indiana Jones embodies cinematic pulp heroics or James Bond embodies suave espionage antics.

All this is not so much to argue a point as to paint a picture of my mindset in reading the book 1000 Game Heroes, a coffee-table tome I perused and purchased some weeks ago. The cover--a depiction of Lara Croft wielding her trademark bemused smirk and Desert Eagle--caught my attention as I strolled past the "Games" section of Barnes and Noble. Inching my way past a small horde of adolescent males digging through game strategy guides in search of cheat codes to use in their favorite games, I snatched a copy of the hefty tome and flipped through it. I was amazed. A few minutes later I was on my way home, poorer by a good chunk of change but looking forward to diving into a book devoted to that most wondrous, most neglected of topics: the game hero. I won't attempt a full review of the book here, but I do invite you to come along with me as I recount some of the thoughts 1000 GH inspired as I read it.

My first impression upon paging through the book--a few hundred full-color, glossy pages of screenshots and concept artwork from several dozen relatively recent games--was giddy amazement at the sheer imaginative wealth represented by video games. Before viewing 1000 GH, I had never given conscious thought to the simply massive number of games that have graced monitors and televisions since the 1970s; but this book featured a huge number of characters and faces--and those drawn only from games released in the last four or five years! There, laid out in all its digital glory, was a sampling of the range of heroes with which gamers have identified for years, lavishing upon them the same level of devotion that movie fanatics offer their favorite Hollywood stars: there are funny heroes, angry heroes, curious heroes, vengeful heroes, timid heroes, tragic heroes, everyday heroes, elite heroes, over-the-top heroes. Some of the characters portrayed were little more than cardboard cutouts designed to be taken lightly or at face value; others were complex and multi-faceted personalities with fully-fleshed-out histories behind them and fateful destinies ahead of them. Many turns of the page were accompanied by a mental exclamation of pleasant surprise: Yes, I remember him! and Of course, who could forget her?--nostalgic joy at seeing my favorite heroes included by the book's editor (along with the inevitable disappointment that other favorites weren't included).

I grew up with many of these characters, in the same sense that I grew up with the heroes of Middle-Earth, Narnia, Dune, and Prydain. Some of them are great characters in a near-literary sense; others would never stand up to serious scrutiny--but like the protagonists of Star Wars, they're simply too appealing, too likeable, too fun to be clouded by lofty intellectual criticism of their artistic flaws. They're simply embedded in my imagination, and my life has been infinitely more fun with them along for the ride.

For reminding me of the simple, almost indescribable wonder of games, I owe 1000 GH my thanks. Where the book falls short, however, is in its failure to scratch the surface of its gorgeous images in search of the more interesting truth beneath. The questions I find most illuminating are ones that the book never bothers to ask, content as it is with simple descriptions of games. Why do we identify with these heroes? How can an imaginary hero with little in-game dialogue or personalization evoke such fascination in the mind of gamers? What archetypes shape the sorts of heroes that appear in games? What factors distinguish the truly great game heroes from the forgettable ones? How do game heroes compare to their literary and cinematic counterparts? Why has it taken so long for games match the level of character depth we find in good books and movies? Why do so many people hold such low storytelling and artistic expectations for games (a self-fulfilling prophecy that has hindered the artistic development of the entire medium)? Why have there been so few real explorations into the narrative potential of games? What do our game heroes tell us about our values and our imaginations? How is it that I can remember the names and backgrounds of dozens of game heroes from 15 years ago, but would be hard-pressed to name more than a handful of characters from a movie I watched last night?

I don't know. I hope that society--gamers and non-gamers alike--devotes more time in the future to answering some of these questions. In the meantime, I'll be going about my everyday life--enjoying time with friends, plugging away at work, pursuing my interests, exercising my imagination where I can--reading good books, watching good movies, and playing good games. And accompanying me through it all, living on in the back of my mind in that mental space allotted to memorable characters I've encountered in my reading, writing, and gaming, will be the game heroes I've come to know over the years. Game on!

Note: the heroes named at the beginning of this article hail from the following games: Mario and Luigi--Super Mario Brothers and its sequels; Lara Croft--Tomb Raider; Duke Nukem--Duke Nukem (surprisingly enough); Gordon Freeman--Half-Life; Guybrush Threepwood--the Monkey Island games; Link--The Legend of Zelda and its sequels; Jim Raynor and Sarah Kerrigan--Starcraft; Samus Aran--the Metroid series; The Nameless One--Planescape: Torment.

Another note: I'll try to compile a list of my personal favorite game heroes for a future post.