Spec Ops: The Line is unusual in that it encourages you to shoot at American soldiers.
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Why is it so appealing to play as a terrorist in video games?

In real life, we abhor terrorism and everything associated with it. So why do so many games manage to convince us that playing at it is fun?

The scene in the trailer for the upcoming game Homefront: The Revolution paints a somewhat familiar scenario in modern warfare: the attack by armed civilians on a military checkpoint. From Ulster to Afghanistan this is a situation that soldiers have faced countless times. When it happens we very often call the perpetrators terrorists, and such attacks are considered cowardly and criminal. So why would somebody want to play a character who carries out such attacks in a game?

It is tempting to say that video game fans simply love explosions and violence in games just for the sake of it, but in practice this is seldom enough. You can’t just give a player a character and expect them to enjoy using that character to slaughter non-player characters. To get a player into a position where they are not only comfortable with violence but actually enjoying it takes some doing.

The first thing to do is dehumanise the victims so that nobody feels bad about their being destroyed, and there are plenty of ways to do that. We can see the most overt in the Homefront trailer above: you hide their faces. The aesthetic of Homefront is very similar with regards to the soldiers as seen in Half Life 2 and also Wolfenstein: The New Order. Make the enemy look like machines, computerise up their voices a little bit and suddenly stabbing them, blowing them up or feeding them to giant alien insects is no problem. Other elements can make enemies appear less human too, such as their behaviour. Enemies that don’t express fear or pain or other emotions likely to create sympathy are more comfortable victims. Lastly the art style can make a big difference. Hotline Miami, for example, was a game that featured some incredibly violent scenes, but the art style gave proceedings a marked sense of unreality.

The next thing is to make sure that the people who are going to be killed are of a suitably expendable nationality or ideology. Nazis are a good shout, as evidenced by Wolfenstein or The Saboteur, but Russians will do at a pinch, especially in a Cold War setting. Another of the current favourites is North Koreans, appearing as villains in both Homefront games and also Crysis. Very few games will actually risk putting the player into a situation of killing NATO soldiers as part of a single-player campaign (one notable exception being Spec Ops: The Line).

Spec Ops: The Line demonstrated the difference that the nationality of fictional victims of violence can make, because shooting at American soldiers in the game, hearing their voices as they get gunned down or blown up, was unsettling. It was unsettling because it is just not the done thing to shoot American soldiers. It’s jarring. Spec Ops: The Line was invoking Apocalypse Now and Heart of Darkness. It aims to unsettle players, and it works. For games that don’t want you to worry, for games that don’t want you to be uncomfortable, the victims can just be from some other country.

While most games will typically say that one set of characters are perfectly fair game based on their nationality or being a bit robotic, or just being Nazis, another justification that is often used is geographic. In The Saboteur you are killing German soldiers in France, in Homefront you are killing North Koreans in the USA. Players are invited to accept that the presence of a foreign soldier as an occupying element in another country legitimises his being targeted. In this instance the act of killing soldiers in cold blood becomes instead an act of liberation.

In some ways it could be argued that the way games try to legitimise acts of great violence by players are similar to the propaganda sometimes used to motivate soldiers in war time. Paint the enemy as less than human and stress how different they are to us and our allies. Make them the other. Rationalise any violence by saying that it is their choice to be where they are and by not going home they are really bringing this upon themselves. This kind of thinking is not limited to any one culture or even one period in history and even in a digital world tribalism can be used as a shield against sympathy.

All this work to make acts of violence more palatable isn’t necessarily going to make them fun of course, empathy is powerful, even collections of pixels on a computer screen can provoke it. You don’t want empathy towards the people you’re blowing up in a video game. So instead to really glory in their annihilation we need more than just being told that they are bad pixels who have it coming, we need to be told that it is fine to enjoy the moment when ‘it’ happens. This is where tone comes into play.

Getting the tone of the game right is vital when you’re encouraging players to commit acts of wanton destruction. Game series like Just Cause or Mercenaries essentially cast you as a terrorist. You are dropped into countries, often fictional though not always, and you are tasked with blowing up infrastructure, killing soldiers, assassinating people, stealing things and toppling the regime. But those series managed to make it work because they kept the tone light. Instead of coming at the audience with pomposity and a firm belief in their own ineffable seriousness, they are both very silly. The full titles for the Mercenaries games spell it out: Playground of Destruction and World In Flames. In these games you can play acts of violence for laughs and it works. In Just Cause 2 your character has a grappling hook which you can attach enemy soldiers to things, all kinds of things. It allows for moments of broad physical comedy in the middle of a ferocious gun battle.

Games with a more serious tone don’t often make playing the part of the mass-murdering guerrilla particularly enjoyable. For example, when you make the life of one person mean something in such a game you can break the games internal logic by killing other people. You start to wonder who else’s life might have value in the world. For example, Watch_Dogs has your character wrapped up in a revenge quest over his dead niece, but in pursuing that revenge he causes absolute havoc across the city. Is it terrorism? Of course it is, he’s chucking explosives around and shooting people. Chicago is like Baghdad with Wi-Fi when he’s around. All that violence makes the initial loss at the start of the story seem insignificant and makes the hero appear self-indulgent and hypocritical.

Ultimately what we can say is that much of the design of games is deliberately manipulative. We are manipulated into thinking that the bad guys are bad, we are manipulated into enjoying fighting against them. We are manipulated into thinking it is perfectly fine to shoot them in the back or blow them up with hidden bombs. Manipulation of this sort isn’t inherently wrong; enjoyment of any creative work will usually demand a certain willingness to go along with what the creator is trying to get you to feel, but if it is done too overtly or if it is misjudged then it can be abrasive and objectionable. The best-designed games will control you without you even knowing that it is your buttons being pushed just as much as the game pad’s.

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

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In Kid Gloves, the stories tumble out like washing from a machine

Adam Mars-Jones' has created a clever, stoical and cool account of caring for a dying father.

In bookish circles, it’s pretty commonplace these days to remark on the way in which the spirit of the Norwegian writer Karl Ove Knausgaard hangs over our literary culture – noxious gas or enlivening blast of ­oxygen, depending on your point of view. Nor would I be the first critic to point out the similarities between his prolixity and that of the British novelist Adam Mars-Jones. Reviewing Knausgaard’s My Struggle in the New Yorker, James Wood likened its style – “hundreds of pages of autopsied minutiae” – to that of Mars-Jones’s novels Pilcrow and Cedilla, the first two volumes in a thus far unfinished project in “micro-realism”. But originality be damned: I’m going to say it anyway. As I read Mars-Jones’s new memoir, Kid Gloves: a Voyage Round My Father, it was Knausgaard I thought of repeatedly. Mostly, this was because I simply couldn’t believe I was so fascinated by a book that was at times so very boring.

Mars-Jones is by far the more elegant writer of the two. He is also feline where Knausgaard is only wide-eyed. Nevertheless, they clamber (slowly and with many pauses to consider the view) over comparable territory. What, after all, is Knausgaard’s account of the effect of milk on a bowl of ­cereal compared to Mars-Jones’s disquisition on the subject of orange juice? The Norwegian’s reverie is the longer of the two but it is Mars-Jones who is the more triumphantly banal. “Shopping on a Monday I saw a wide variety of types of orange juice on display in a supermarket and bought large quantities,” he writes early on. I love that “Monday” – it’s so precise. But it also prompts the question: which supermarket, exactly, was he in? Was it the same “large branch of Sainsbury’s” where, three paragraphs later, we find him picking up a carton of buttermilk?

You will think that I am taking the piss. I’m not – or not entirely. For all its pedantic weirdness, Mars-Jones’s memoir, clotted and rich and true, does its job rather well. As the subtitle suggests, at its heart is his tricky relationship with Sir William Mars-Jones, the high court judge who died in 1999. A clever man but also a difficult one (having made a bit of a leap in terms of education and social class, he clung rather ardently to certain comforting reflexes), he is brought to life vividly by his son, who often simply replays their most frustrating conversations. In doing so, Mars-Jones, Jr also tells us something of himself. He comes over as a bit silly and fastidious but also as clever, stoical, kindly and, above all, ever cool in the face of provocation. In this light, his Pooterish digressions are just another symptom of his unnervingly temperate personality, his clinical even-handedness.

His memoir is oddly artless, the stories tumbling out, one after another, like washing pulled from a machine. An account of his father’s better-known cases (he prosecuted in the Moors murders trial) shades into a detour on soup-making; an analysis of Sir William’s retirement – he gravitated, his son writes, towards the state of “inanition” – takes us, almost slyly, to an explanation of why Mars-Jones tenderly associates Badedas with shingles (a friend who had yet to discover he had Aids, of which shingles can be a symptom, bathed in it).

The reader waits, and waits, for the big scene, for the moment when Mars-Jones tells his father, a regular kind of homophobe, that he is gay. But in a strange way (it does arrive eventually) this is beside the point. From the outset, we know that it was Adam, not his brothers, who looked after his widowed father in his last days, sharing his flat in Gray’s Inn Square; so we know already that an accommodation has been reached, however horrifying Pater’s reaction was at the time. (Mars-Jones, Sr suggested that his son could not possibly be gay because, as a boy, he played with himself during a film starring Jacqueline Bisset; more cruelly, he delegated his clerk to research the possibilities of testosterone treatment for his son.) In any case, there is a universality here: for which of us, gay or not, hasn’t trembled on hearing our mother say, down the line from home, the dread phrase “Dad would like a word”?

After his father’s death, Mars-Jones attempts to continue to live in his parents’ home, insisting that the inn will have to evict him if it wants him gone. When it does turf him out, he writes a piece for the Times in which he denounces its members – in ­effect, his parents’ friends and neighbours. Is this just the response of a more than usually broke freelance writer? Or is it that of a man in deep grief?

Perhaps it’s both. Mars-Jones tells us quite a bit about his parlous finances but relatively little of his feelings of abandonment. He was closer to his mother. It is more than 15 years since his father died. And yet, here it is, his book. Those Knausgaardian impulses of his – perhaps they’re just displacement for his loss, word-fill for a void so unfathomably big that it still takes him by surprise, even now. 

Kid Gloves: a Voyage Round My Father is available now from Particular Books (£16.99)

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism