Batman: Arkham Asylum is one of the few games to create a richer story in order to have longer gameplay.
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When it comes to video games, how long is too long?

Should a game provide “value for money” and pad out its story with as many tedious hours of fetching things as possible, or is there merit in a short, sharp ending?

Fetch quests, you’ve got to love them. Well you haven’t got to love them, but if you love video games you’re probably going to have to learn to at least tolerate them. Play any game for any length of time and sooner or later one of the characters is going to ask you to go to a place, get an object for them and bring it back to them. There’s a reason that this character has asked you to do that and usually that reason is because the people who made the game ran out of story yet felt that the game needed to be longer.

This kind of problem is par for the course with video games stories, torn as they are between three competing priorities.

The first of these is the need for a game to provide value for money to its players and this is typically defined in terms of hours of content. Games pride themselves on their run time in the same way that a restaurant might take pride in doling out oversized portions. In the simple marketing speak of games marketing more is more. Hours of content up for grabs, is it good? Is it important? Who cares, look how much time it takes. No game ever took pride in being short. This can vary wildly of course from action games or rogue-likes where a single run through might take less than an hour to sagas like Wasteland 2 or Dragon Age: Origins that can take around 80 hours.

The second factor is how the story accommodates the chief gameplay mechanics. So for example if your game is built around shooting people in the face, as a lot of games are, then you have to tell a story about that. This poses problems, because there are only so many situations in life where shooting everybody in the face will resolve the problems. You can see this problem manifest itself in the Mass Effect series. As the series went on the diminishing returns of such a game being built on a foundation of hiding behind low walls and shooting people took their toll. As highly regarded as the Mass Effect series was it boasted a completion rate only around 50 per cent, which means as good as it was, most people didn’t see the game to the end. What your game is built to be on a mechanical level limits your scope for the length of time you can expect players to hang in there. An RPG can last tens of hours, while a corridor shooter will often struggle to find fun ways to fill six.

The third factor is the nature of the story itself – the story that the developer wanted to tell when they made the game. So we might look at the recent Tomb Raider for example, a game which is designed to tell the story of how a young Lara Croft goes from bedraggled victim to implacable heroine. That’s the way the story was planned to go, but because of how the game plays, as a third person shooter with a few platform elements, young Lara hasn’t gone more than an hour before she’s creeping up on men and strangling them with her bow or shrugging off gunshot wounds in pitched battles. To compound matters, because the game has to last a decent amount of time she’s murdering these guys and failing to escape from the island for what feels like an age, to the point where she’s killed so many men that you wonder why the rest don’t just down tools and run for the hills.

We can also see these problems in Alien: Isolation. Without wanting to spoil anything, Alien: Isolation has a story that can best be described as dragging quite badly. By the end of the game, from a purely story point of view, it has outstayed its welcome. The designers erred on the side of padding the game out for longer play time rather than going for a neater ending and so the story suffered, which is disappointing given the quality of the design and attention to detail of the setting.

Of course there is a flipside to this: when the game is good you want more and you don’t want it to end. So what is to be done? One solution that Alien: Isolation employs to an extent, and which the early Call Of Duty games also used to good effect, is to augment the main story with additional content. In Alien: Isolation this means missions and side stories based around the mechanics of the main game but set outside it. In the first Call of Duty games this meant that the story of each of the main characters was unrelated to any main narrative and quite short. This solution means that you’re getting more of the game if you want it, but in smaller, more manageable chunks.

In some games, such as Watch_Dogs or GTA V, the padding takes the form of open world malarkey that can be avoided. Usually these take the form of mini-games, side quests and random acts of violence. You can make a straight shot for the end of the story and it won’t take too long, or you can wander about to your heart’s content in the sandbox. This is a good compromise.

Another alternative is to offer more than one way to play through the game, important divergent choices that mean you can play the game again and everything will be a little different. To its credit this is something Wolfenstein: The New Order does.

Of course the somewhat obvious solution is to just make fuller, stronger stories, but this is harder to do than it looks. One game that managed it with aplomb is Batman: Arkham Asylum, but in order to do it the game had to draw upon the large supporting cast from the Batman comics. For a team of developers without all that background to call on and with hours of space on a storyboard to fill, the temptation to just have a character send the protagonist off to retrieve a McGuffin from wherever must be strong.

The idea that games should be shorter in general is one that has been going around a lot in recent years, with games like Limbo and The Walking Dead being cited as examples of a punchier narrative delivered in a cheaper, more manageable form. There is merit to this approach but there is a risk in short games with a narrative focus that the elements of the game as a challenge and test of skill become sidelined and a game becomes a thing that you experience rather than play. A short game lacks the time to teach you how to play and nobody likes a game that slaps you round the head with the end sequence just as you were hitting your stride.

A long story does not have to be a bad thing, of course. Some games that take ages to complete still manage to have few problems keeping a gripping narrative going. Series like Final Fantasy, Neverwinter Nights and individual games like Vampire: Bloodlines and Planescape: Torment all boast great stories that take days to unfold. If we look at games that don’t even have defined storylines but write their stories on the fly, such as the Civilisation, Football Manager or Total War series we see games that create drama as they go and which can hold players spellbound for hours at a time for as many sessions as it takes to reach the end, where for many players they’ll just start again. The capacity of these games to ravenously consume time in the tens, even hundreds of hours, would seem to indicate that they have locked onto something that mainstream games are missing.

Perhaps the problem for mainstream games lies in the way that they are seen as a visual medium rather than a cerebral one. It is easy to make a comparison between games and movies when perhaps in terms of form and structure games are more closely tied to literature. Movies are rolling entertainment, but literature, like a game, demands the attention of the audience in order to proceed. We can pick up and put down a book, and we can do so with a game too, but it would be unusual to do this with a movie. Games also naturally fit into the chapter structure of books, albeit having arrived at this structure on their own in the form of levels. Cinematic isn’t something that games should see as an aspiration, it is just one approach among many, and designers should be aware that there are all sorts of reasons you don’t make eight hour long movies.

For games to develop as a storytelling medium something has to change. We are seeing progress in short-form indie games and in the long-form RPGs and strategy games, but in the middle, in the land of the ten hour mass-market action games that make up so much of mainstream gaming, we’re still waiting on something better than Half Life 2.

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

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Drama without sensation: A Separation is an unsettling novel of distances

In Katie Kitamura’s novel, it is the distance between the narrator’s two selves that causes her most discomfort.

In a 2013 interview with Guernica, the online magazine, the novelist Katie Kitamura discussed how publishing’s “deeply patronising attitude” towards female readers results in overtly feminine book covers, featuring, for instance, women in bathing suits. “That’s not the kind of book cover that makes me want to buy a book,” she said.

The cover of Kitamura’s latest novel, A Separation, does, surprisingly, feature a woman in a bathing suit. But there is something quietly unsettling about this picture: the woman, who has her back to us, is awkwardly cropped out of frame from the elbows up, and she is sitting at the edge of an oddly shaped pool. Most of the cover is solid turquoise – a bright wash of negative space.

Kitamura’s unnamed narrator is a poised literary translator. As the novel opens in London, we learn that she is married to Christopher (a charming, haphazard non-author) but, in secret, they have been living separately for the past six months. When she receives a telephone call from Christopher’s mother, Isabella, informing her that he has seemingly gone missing in Greece, she doesn’t let on about her disintegrating marriage but boards a plane to look for him.

Much of the rest of the novel takes place in Greece: at a “very pleasant” hotel, in “perfect weather”, the pool “heated to a very comfortable temperature”. The area has recently experienced a string of devastating fires, leaving patches of scorched earth. The location has an almost eerie surface stillness that jars with the mystery at its heart. In this way, Kitamura (an art critic as well as novelist) creates a setting somehow reminiscent of David Hockney’s A Bigger Splash, Christopher’s sudden disappearance leaving behind no visible ripples.

The narrator, too, has a glassy composure at odds with the tumultuous events. On deciding to end her marriage formally, she shows neither despair nor relief, but anxiety about the etiquette. “I assumed – I had no prior experience to go on – that asking for a divorce was always discomfiting,” she says with typical understatement, “but I could not believe it was always this awkward.” Of her feelings for her new partner, Yvan, she notes that they seem more like “administration rather than passion”, and then offers a moderated gloss of Hamlet, “You cannot say you did it out of love, since at your age romantic passions have grown weak, and the heart obeys reason.

Her emotional separation from the trauma of her circumstances allows the narrator to examine the facts of her husband’s disappearance. She knows Christopher was unfaithful and she immediately identifies the hotel receptionist as the object of his attentions. We never see the narrator professionally translating, but the novel is concerned with her attempts to read the deeper meanings behind the remarks and behaviour of those around her. She finds it easy to imagine unseen contexts to conversations: an argument between Christopher’s parents, an embrace between her taxi driver and the hotel receptionist. As she writes, “Imagination, after all, costs nothing.”

Her propensity for projection is such that some things remain lost in translation. Even the most minute interactions can be misread. When Christopher’s mother comments that the two women’s love for her son connects them, “she was looking over my shoulder, as if watching someone approach . . . she was staring at nothing”. The novel occupies this imaginative negative space: the gap between what people think and how they appear.

Ultimately, it is the distance between the narrator’s two selves that causes her most discomfort. How long will she allow others to read her as the concerned, loving wife? Should she admit she wants to find Christopher in order to request that they separate officially? As her search continues she notes, “There was a small but definite wedge pushing between the person I was and the person I was purporting to be.”

There is a suspenseful and menacing tone to Kitamura’s prose that might trick a reader into thinking, at first, they are in the territory of thrillers such as Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train. Both these novels, like A Separation, have narrators who defy readers’ attempts to fathom their emotional depths and to deal with questions of how well you know anyone – even your own partner. But this is a work free of sensation, or even resolution. As the narrator notes, in the shock of an event it is natural to look for a more dramatic narrative. “But in the end,” she says, “this is only chasing shadows. The real culpability is not to be found in the dark or with a stranger, but in ourselves.”

A Separation by Katie Kitamura is published by Clerkenwell Press (231pp, £12.99)

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution