The Arma question: is it easier to kill a man than a woman in a videogame?

We find ourselves trapped between realism and reverence.

Sometimes questions of equality do not give easy answers. Sometimes they do not give the answers that feel right. And sometimes your belief that everybody is equal and your sense of right and wrong find themselves at opposite ends of the same track, travelling towards each other at equal speeds, doomed to collide in the middle like a maths puzzle gone awry.

What brings about this sort of moral dilemma for the gamer? Not the knockabout fun of a Saints Row dildo clubbing rampage, nor firing a bunch of birds head first into some oblivious pigs. No, it’s the games that create a world that feels real with characters that look and act in realistic ways; these are the ones that can be a test.

The debate as to whether the Arma series of military simulators should include female characters not just as civilians but as actual soldiers is one that has been bubbling along in the background of the series development for years. With the sudden popularity of the Day Z zombie mod for the game which brought with it female playable characters, and of course more female players, the debate about whether female characters should be allowed to fight in Arma 3 appeared to really take off.

Arma games have included women in the past, of course, and you could even play as one. However, there was the caveat that all female characters were civilians and they could not pick up or use weapons, at all. For all intents and purposes they served the role of the decoy target in the firing range that you’re not ever meant to shoot at. In some ways this is actually the worst way to put female characters into a game, mimicking the standard story tropes of women as damsels in distress, victims to be avenged and other completely powerless entities.

From a realism perspective of course this position is indefensible and has been getting less defensible year on year. Women now make up a large proportion of the armed forces of most countries and while very few countries use women in a front line infantry role the front lines are notoriously difficult to define these days. To be realistic a game should include female soldiers, even if only in supporting roles. This is something that the newly released Company of Heroes 2 has done, featuring women in the roles of snipers, aircraft pilots and tank crew for the Soviet forces. Arma 3 could do it easily too and really that should be the end to it.

However a second trend has appeared in the debate regarding female soldiers in Arma and it is the question not of whether people want to play as female characters, but whether they are happy to kill female characters.

At first this might sound strange, but on reflection there is some merit to this argument.

There is a degree of intelligence required with a game like Arma 3, a degree of engagement that you do not find with a cartoon style game like Saints Row 3 or even something fantastical like Skyrim. The Arma games require calculation and consideration almost more than they require reflexes or other traditional game playing skills. The game demands that you make the right decisions, often under pressure. The ability to shoot in a straight line, always a bonus, is usually a secondary consideration because if your decisions are wrong you’ll probably be dead before you can shoot anybody. The beaches of Day Z were littered for months with the still twitching corpses of Call of Duty and CounterStrike players who didn’t really appreciate what they were walking into until they’d been gunned down and had their beans robbed off them many times over by more experienced players.

Bearing that in mind, and also bearing in mind just how one-sided a properly planned engagement in an Arma game should be, this does bring certain ethical concerns into play. It is one thing to gun down other men in a game and sure it may not be sporting to do so while they have their backs turned or otherwise oblivious to them, but that’s just how it has to be, otherwise you get killed. But to do that to a woman? That may well require your blood to be a little bit colder. Unlike most reflex-based games, in Arma you will often find yourself watching your target, choosing your moment. A well-executed plan in an Arma game is more a series of murders than a fight. Inflicting that sort of calculated carnage on female characters isn’t necessarily going to sit as comfortably with players as shooting men would.

It is notable that even Saints Row 3, that most heartless of harlequins, did not feature female police officers or soldiers. Women remain in two of the gangs you fight against, but make up part of the rank and file of only one of them, appearing as bosses for the second. When even a game as ostensibly tasteless and disrespectful as that is willing to recognise some degree of chivalry in its enemy selection it seems apparent this is something designers are aware of. It can be hard to see the lines that Saints Row is not willing to cross, just due to the size of the truck they cheerfully drive over the lines they will cross, but they are there.

And so the ethical train wreck occurs. Women should be on the battlefield in a realistic game, but it doesn’t feel entirely kosher to be killing them because, particularly for a man, violent acts directed towards women are considered morally worse than those directed towards other men. We could say the same about other groups too. For example, what if the Arma series set a campaign in a civil war with one faction employing child soldiers? Would players go near a game where your opponents are horrifically exploited tweens? Not likely.

But then here’s the thing. If we’re going to get into this sort of discussion, what makes one digital representation of one demographic more ideologically safe to murder than another? Why is it so much easier for people to shoot a male avatar rather than one of a woman, or a child? It is pixels and polygons, it shouldn’t matter. But it does matter, even when we can clearly differentiate between what is a game and what is real our human empathy will kick in. We all know Bambi’s mother is a huge pile of pictures of a deer shown in rapid succession to create the illusion of movement, she’s not real, we know this, we understand this, but we’re still sad when she dies. This is because we’re sensitive creatures and it is completely understandable that a lot of us will be less comfortable killing a digital woman than we would a man, at least for the first few times, until we’ve become suitably desensitised.

So here we are, trapped between realism and reverence. Arma 3 will almost certainly feature women in combat roles, this is 2013 after all, but we should not discount all of the protests as simple misogyny. People will have to accept that women are not delicate flowers to be stepped over while those of us equipped with Y chromosomes handle the rougher aspects of life, whether it is considered to be for their own good or not. For some people that acceptance will not come easily and it might require some adjustment, but nobody said the Twenty-First Century wasn’t going to be complicated.

The Arma games require calculation and consideration almost more than they require reflexes or other traditional game playing skills.

Phil Hartup is a freelance journalist with an interest in video gaming and culture

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Bohemian rhapsody: Jeanette Winterson’s “cover version” of The Winter’s Tale

 Jeanette Winterson's The Gap of Time is full of metaphorical riches.

Shakespeare – that magpie plunderer of other people’s plots and characters – would undoubtedly have approved. The Hogarth Shakespeare project invites prominent contemporary writers to rework his plays in novelistic form and this is Jeanette Winterson’s reimagining of The Winter’s Tale. Like the original, it shuttles disturbingly between worlds, cultures and emotional registers. It has never been an easy play, for all its apparent focus on reconciliation, and Winterson handles the gear-changes with skill, moving between the offices of Sicilia, a London-based asset-stripping company, and New Bohemia, a New Orleans-like American urban landscape (with interludes in both a virtual and a real Paris).

Her Leontes is a hedge-fund speculator, Polixenes a visionary designer of screen games (the presence of this world echoes the unsettling semi-magic of Shakespeare’s plot). They have a brief and uncomfortable history as teenage lovers at school and Polixenes – Xeno – has also slept with MiMi (Hermione), the French-American singer who eventually marries Leo.

The story unfolds very much as in the play (though Winterson cannot quite reproduce the effect of Shakespeare’s best-known deadpan stage direction), with Leo using advanced surveillance technology to spy on Xeno and MiMi, and Perdita being spirited away across the Atlantic to the US, where her guardian, Tony, is mugged and killed and she is left in the “baby hatch” of a local hospital – to be found by Shep and his son and brought up in their affectionate, chaotic African-American household. Perdita falls in love with Zel, the estranged son of Xeno, discovers her parentage, returns to London and meets Leo; Leo’s PA, Pauline, has kept in contact across the years with MiMi, a recluse in Paris, and persuades her to return secretly to give a surprise performance at the Roundhouse, when Leo is in the audience, and – well, as in the play, the ending is both definitive and enormously unsettling. “So we leave them now, in the theatre, with the music. I was sitting at the back, waiting to see what would happen.”

That last touch, bringing the author into the narrative in the same apparently arbitrary way we find in a text such as Dostoevsky’s Demons – as a “real” but imperfect witness – gently underlines the personal importance of the play to this particular author. Winterson is explicit about the resonance of this drama for an adopted child and one of the finest passages in the book is a two-page meditation on losing and finding: a process she speculates began with the primordial moment of the moon’s separation from the earth, a lost partner, “pale, lonely, watchful, present, unsocial, inspired. Earth’s autistic twin.”

It is the deep foundation of all the stories of lost paradises and voyages away from home. As the moon controls the tides, balances the earth’s motion by its gravitational pull, so the sense of what is lost pervades every serious, every heart-involving moment of our lives. It is a beautifully worked conceit, a fertile metaphor. The story of a child lost and found is a way of sounding the depths of human imagination, as if all our longing and emotional pain were a consequence of some buried sense of being separated from a home that we can’t ever ­remember. If tragedy is the attempt to tell the story of loss without collapse, all story­telling has some dimension of the tragic, reaching for what is for ever separated by the “gap of time”.

Winterson’s text is full of metaphorical riches. She writes with acute visual sensibility (from the first pages, with their description of a hailstorm in a city street) and this is one of the book’s best things. There are also plenty of incidental felicities: Xeno is designing a game in which time can be arrested, put on hold, accelerated, and so on, and the narrative exhibits something of this shuttling and mixing – most effectively in the 130-page pause between the moment when Milo (Shakespeare’s Mamilius, Leo’s and MiMi’s son) slips away from his father at an airport and the fatal accident that follows. In the play, Mamilius’s death is a disturbing silence behind the rest of the drama, never alluded to, never healed or reconciled; here, Milo’s absence in this long “gap of time” sustains a pedal of unease that has rather the same effect and the revelation of his death, picking up the narrative exactly where it had broken off, is both unsurprising and shocking.

Recurrent motifs are handled with subtlety, especially the theme of “falling”; a song of MiMi’s alludes to Gérard de Nerval’s image of an angel falling into the gap between houses in Paris, not being able to fly away without destroying the street and withering into death. The convergence and crucial difference between falling and failing, falling in love and the “fall” of the human race – all these are woven together hauntingly, reflecting, perhaps, Shakespeare’s exploration in the play of Leontes’s terror of the physical, of the final fall into time and flesh that unreserved love represents.

A book of considerable beauty, then, if not without its problems. MiMi somehow lacks the full angry dignity of Hermione and Leo is a bit too much of a caricature of the heartless, hyper-masculine City trader. His psychoanalyst is a cartoon figure and Pauline’s Yiddish folksiness – although flagged in the text as consciously exaggerated – is a bit overdone.

How a contemporary version can fully handle the pitch of the uncanny in Shakespeare’s final scene, with the “reanimation” of Hermione, is anyone’s guess (the Bible is not wrong to associate the earliest story of the resurrection with terror as much as joy). Winterson does a valiant job and passes seamlessly into a moving and intensely suggestive ending but I was not quite convinced on first reading that her reanimation had done justice to the original.

However, weigh against this the real success of the New Bohemia scenes as a thoroughly convincing modern “pastoral” and the equally successful use of Xeno’s creation of virtual worlds in his games as a way of underlining Shakespeare’s strong hints in the play that art, with its aura of transgression, excess, forbidden magic, and so on, may be our only route to nature. Dream, surprise and new creation are what tell us what is actually there, if only we could see. Winterson’s fiction is a fine invitation into this deeply Shakespearean vision of imagination as the best kind of truth-telling.

Rowan Williams is a New Statesman contributing writer. His most recent book is “The Edge of Words: God and the Habits of Language” (Bloomsbury). The Gap of Time by Jeanette Winterson is published by Vintage (320pp, £16.99)

Rowan Williams is an Anglican prelate, theologian and poet, who was Archbishop of Canterbury from 2002 to 2012. He writes on books for the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 01 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Tory tide