“Don’t Starve” is one recent game that encourages players to appreciate the real consequence of death. Image: Klei Entertainment
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What can “permadeath” video games teach us about suicide?

Permanence and finality in video games can help us be better at understanding, and talking about, mental health issues.

“Happy, depressed, spiteful, manic or suicidal? More Mudokons... with real emotions,” reads the back cover of the 1998 PlayStation video game Oddworld: Abe’s Exoddus.

To the credit of developers Oddworld Inhabitants, its titular Oddworld series was revolutionary in its exploration of mature themes – slavery, captivity, capitalist greed, to name but a few examples – which in the Nineties was a distinguished side-step from the whimsical cartoon mascots and fluorescent fantasy worlds prevalent at the time. Oddworld was darker and thus more intriguing than most of the competition, yet how Exoddus scrutinises suicide in this instance appears to resign the deeply complex state of mind to a badge of honour, a commodity, a testament to the game’s advanced artificial intelligence. Unfortunately, this blasé characterisation of the act is a damaging indictment of a game capable of tackling sophisticated ideas.

But again, Oddworld was ahead of its time. The fact that it even considered suicide within its narrative was against the grain. Nowadays, video games are more culturally aware and the burgeoning indie renaissance the medium has enjoyed over the last few years has facilitated a more refined discourse in and around interpersonal themes, not least suicide. Zoe Quinn’s Depression Quest and Will O’Neill’s Actual Sunlight both examine mental health by placing the player in the shoes of characters suffering from depression and suicidal tendencies. It’s bleak, but naturally reflects the subject matter. Most importantly, though, it’s informative – not only for those naive or ignorant to these conditions, but for those who may be in a relatable position, although the latter should be exercised with caution. Video games can never replace professional consultation, but they can show players that they’re not alone, and this can mark the first step towards remedial treatment.   

The rise of permadeath in video games – whereby player characters die permanently in-game, or where a game must restart from the beginning should the player character die, in the absence of multiple lives or continues – has changed the way players approach games. In these instances, emotion is often the driving force when it comes to decision-making, and thus with permadeath mental state governs player action, as opposed to logical rationale.

It’s worth noting here that self-sacrifice – when players kill themselves to respawn or restart levels; or non-playable characters sacrifice themselves for the greater good/to save their companions – is different from suicide as portrayed in the above examples. Permadeath essentially forces players to consider consequence, permanence and finality within the bounds of digital landscapes.

But what about out with virtual settings – are these themes and ideas transferable to reality? An academic paper published in 2014 entitled “Being Bad in a Video Game Can Make Us More Morally Sensitive”, co-authored by Dr Matthew Grizzard, discusses how engaging in certain virtual behaviours has scope to elicit feelings of guilt and can thus encourage prosocial real life consequences. Grizzard et al hypothesise that committing immoral behaviour in video games can lead to increased moral sensitivity in players. This would suggest a heightened sense or understanding of consequence on the part of the player, therefore I ask Dr Grizzard if this line of thought could extend to a better comprehension of suicide – both in-game and in real life.

“I think [the] question really has two parts: (1) Do video games encourage a better understanding of the finality of suicide in real life? Versus, (2) Could video games encourage a better understanding of the finality of suicide in real life?” he says. “With regard to the first question, I don’t think games necessarily encourage ideas of permanence and finality. Video games are designed to be played multiple times with death being a temporary inconvenience rather than permanent. In fact, players will sometimes even kill themselves in games when they encounter obstacles or become stuck in a game to ‘respawn’ at an earlier time point in the game. So video games, particularly popular press video games, encourage a view that death as temporary. Death is portrayed as detrimental in games, but it is not a one-way door.

“With regard to the second question – I do think games could encourage a better understanding of the finality of suicide.”

For many players, video games represent a safe place and facilitate a certain level of escapism. Reality is suspended and thus the in-game cycle of dying and respawning and restarting is part of the deal. But even in games that utilize the permadeath feature, death is often more of a hindrance than it is absolutely final, as Grizzard suggests. The games that use permadeath as their primary mechanic, such as Klei Entertainment’s 2013 hit Don’t Starve, seem to be the ones which best represent finality, encouraging players to appreciate the real consequence of death.

“As designers we work really hard to give players agency,” says Klei Entertainment founder Jamie Cheng. “Permadeath is almost ‘free’ agency, in that suddenly every action matters a whole lot more. I think players appreciate that, and as a designer it gives us a chance to show them similar scenarios over time, and how their actions can drastically change outcomes.

“Obviously emotion plays a part, but in my experience the emotion happens after the finality, not before. That is: when the player dies or a catastrophic event happens, that’s when the weight of consequence hits – but beforehand, players are simply more attuned to their actions and less frivolous.”

Although Cheng admits suicide was never something that was considered during Don’t Starve’s design process, he does point to the fact that it’s more important to consider the active adventure, as opposed to its end. I suggest that in a game which places so much emphasis on preserving life, comparisons between virtual and actual reality are more or less likely to follow.

“I’m unclear that there’s much correlation between in-game and reality,” offers Cheng. “Instead of affecting how players perceive reality, our goal is the other way around – to have a video game that mimics reality in its finality and consequence. In addition, we want players to enjoy the journey. Since the player knows that eventually they’ll lose it all, it makes more sense that the process is the interesting part, and not what you get at the end of the journey.”

It could be argued that no matter which way around these ideas are depicted, in light of what Cheng says, the end result illustrates an intrinsic link between game worlds and the real world. This would seem to play perfectly into Grizzard’s view that video games could do more in encouraging a better understanding of the finality of suicide. He points to other transformative media that tackles similar themes such as film, noting Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life as a pertinent example of how powerful viewing the world through someone else’s eyes – in this example a fictitious character – can be for viewers. There’s no reason why video games can’t deliver something similar.

“Evolutionarily, play represents a safe place to practice or experience skills that we generally don’t or can’t have direct access to in the real-world for many reasons,” adds Grizzard. “Both predatory and prey animals play to learn how to survive in the wild. Human play serves similar roles, with the skills that we learn being not only related to physical attributes but also social attributes. For example, in medical schools in the US, doctors-in-training practice giving bad news to patients in ‘play’ scenarios with actors.

“These scenarios help doctors practise skills that they rarely have the opportunity to practice in the real-world in a safe environment where making mistakes has few consequences. Video games can be particularly adept at allowing the same type of play for several reasons. Primarily, the human brain doesn’t firmly distinguish between real versus mediated stimuli. Our brain reacts to mediated images in a similar fashion as it does to real images. This is why scary movies can make us jump or tearjerkers can make us cry. Video games have the potential to provide players with a rich virtual environment filled characters and stimuli that they respond to as if they were real.

“As such, games could provide a glimpse into the severe negative consequences of suicide on family members and friends. This glimpse is obviously impossible in the real world, but games have the ability to simulate it.”

Video games are in the auspicious position of not only being a persuasive, cogent and expressive medium, but, unique to any other form of media, are also interactive. Physically engaging players in two-way stories arguably puts the platform in the best position to challenge perceptions, and to explore personal, more sophisticated themes. In the grand scheme of things, video games as a medium are relatively new, thus there is no reason why this can’t or won’t continue to grow in the future.   

“Video games do have the potential,” adds Grizzard. “However, questions still remain as to whether a single play experience that associates strong consequences with suicide could overcome the more traditional ‘death is temporary’ play experiences that are generally seen in video games. These are fascinating questions, and I would be hesitant to conclude one way or the other. “As always, more research must be done.”

Research such as Grizzard’s, coupled with the rising number of video games tackling social issues, must continue. As a society, suicide has become stigmatised to the point where we seem almost scared to discuss the subject for fear of admitting failure or weakness. This is, of course, ridiculous and British culture is particularly guilty of endorsing the “stiff-upper lip” mentality that perpetuates warped machismo doctrines such as this. I’m from Glasgow and in 2012, the suicide rates in Scotland were 73 per cent greater than those of England and Wales. No one is suggesting video games can single-handed drive these statistics down, but if the medium can help encourage healthier, more enlightened conversation around the issue, then it's heading in the right direction.

If you are affected by any of the issues discussed here, you can call the Samaritans free in the UK on 08457 909090, or in the US contact the National Suicide Prevention Line on 1-800-273-8255.

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Would the BBC's Nazi drama SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago?

This alternate history is freighted with meaning now we're facing the wurst-case scenario. 

Would SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago? Though the clever-after-the-fact Nostradamus types out there might disagree, I can’t believe that it would. When it comes to the Second World War, after all, the present has helpfully stepped in where memory is just beginning to leave off. The EU, in the process of fragmenting, is now more than ever powerless to act in the matter of rogue states, even among its own membership. In case you hadn’t noticed, Hungary, for instance, is already operating as a kind of proto-fascist state, led by Viktor Orbán, a man whom Jean-Claude Juncker, the president of the European Commission, jokingly likes to call “the dictator” – and where it goes, doubtless others will soon follow.

The series (Sundays, 9pm), adapted from Len Deighton’s novel, is set in 1941 in a Britain under Nazi occupation; Winston Churchill has been executed and the resistance is struggling to hold on to its last strongholds in the countryside. Sam Riley plays Douglas Archer, a detective at Scotland Yard, now under the control of the SS, and a character who appears in almost every scene. Riley has, for an actor, a somewhat unexpressive face, beautiful but unreadable. Here, however, his downturned mouth and impassive cheekbones are perfect: Archer, after all, operates (by which I mean, barely operates) in a world in which no one wants to give their true feelings away, whether to their landlady, their lover, or their boss, newly arrived from Himmler’s office and as Protestant as all hell (he hasn’t used the word “degenerate” yet, but he will, he will).

Archer is, of course, an ambiguous figure, neither (at present) a member of the resistance nor (we gather) a fully committed collaborator. He is – or so he tells himself – merely doing his job, biding his time until those braver or more foolhardy do something to restore the old order. Widowed, he has a small boy to bring up. Yet how long he can inhabit this dubious middle ground remains to be seen. Oskar Huth (Lars Eidinger), the new boss, is keen to finish off the resistance; the resistance, in turn, is determined to persuade Archer to join its cause.

It’s hard to find fault with the series; for the next month, I am going to look forward to Sunday nights mightily. I would, I suppose, have hoped for a slightly more charismatic actress than Kate Bosworth to play Barbara Barga, the American journalist who may or may not be involved with the British resistance. But everything else seems pretty perfect to me. London looks suitably dirty and its inhabitants’ meals suitably exiguous. Happiness is an extra egg for tea, smoking is practically a profession, and
the likes of Archer wear thick, white vests.

Swastikas adorn everything from the Palace of Westminster to Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace is half ruined, a memorial to what the Germans regard as Churchill’s folly, and the CGI is good enough for the sight of all these things to induce your heart to ache briefly. Nazi brutality is depicted here as almost quotidian – and doubtless it once was to some. Huth’s determination to have four new telephone lines installed in his office within the hour is at one end of this horrible ordinariness. At the other is the box in which Archer’s mutinous secretary Sylvia (Maeve Dermody) furiously stubs out her fag, full to the brim with yellow stars.

When I first heard about The Kettering Incident (Tuesdays, 12.20am; repeated Wednesdays, 10pm) I thought someone must have found out about that thing that happened one time I was driving north on the M1 with a more-than-usually terrible hangover. Turns out it’s a new Australian drama, which comes to us on Sky Atlantic. Anna (Elizabeth Debicki), a doctor working in London, pitches up back in Tasmania many years after her teenage friend Gillian disappeared into its Kettering forest, having seen a load of mysterious bright lights. Was Gillian abducted by aliens or was she, as some local people believe, murdered by Anna? To be honest, she could be working as a roadie for Kylie, for all I care. This ponderous, derivative show is what happens when a writer sacrifices character on the altar of plot. The more the plot thickens, the more jaw-achingly tedious it becomes.

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 24 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The world after Brexit