Sluts With Consoles is a brilliant two-hander. Girly-twirly pick-me Player One and Gothy just-one-of-the-boys Player Two are locked in mortal - and emotional - combat. They represent the duality of the female gaming experience. Is it better to be feminine or feminist? Is gaming an escape from the cliques of teenage oppression, or just another form of self-deception?

That all sounds a bit heavy-handed, but it is a hilarious show. It perfectly observes modern gaming tropes and how we all evolve our gamer styles.

Throughout, it asks a very specific question; "does a single stuck pixel spoil the entire view?" That is, what are we prepared to tolerate in order to live in our fantasy world? Older brothers swiping our power-ups transmogrify into incel-gamers shouting slurs. Who cares if we're having fun, right…?

As with any powerful piece of theatre, it's unlikely to be seen by those who have the most need of its message.

Nevertheless, it is an entertaining and amusing show with a +20 battle-damage buff.

The show is touring throughout the year and it is absolutely worth seeing if you have any interest in gaming.

The book says "reality is broken" - but it left me wondering if, instead, I am broken.

The book is endlessly quotable.

The truth is this: in today’s society, computer and video games are fulfilling genuine human needs that the real world is currently unable to satisfy. Games are providing rewards that reality is not. They are teaching and inspiring and engaging us in ways that reality is not. They are bringing us together in ways that reality is not.

It's the same reason people get sucked into soap operas. Or sports. Or novels. There is a clear storyline with very little chance of personal trauma.

The central thesis of the book is that games can be used to better the world:

When Herodotus looked back, he saw games that were large-scale systems, designed to organize masses of people and make an entire civilization more resilient. I look forward to a future in which massively multiplayer games are once again designed in order to reorganize society in better ways, and to get seemingly miraculous things done.

But that ignores that it is far easier to destroy than create. That's how the Q game works. By telling people they can smash things without having to build a replacement.

Throughout the book, I felt challenged on what I enjoy about gaming. Take this:

Games make us happy because they are hard work that we choose for ourselves, and it turns out that almost nothing makes us happier than good, hard work.

Is this why I dislike most games? I'm find it interesting to play the "metagame" of working out how to automate success. I like looking for the algorithm behind the game. Once I've worked out the trick, I quickly abandon a game.

Fourth, and finally, we crave meaning, or the chance to be a part of something larger than ourselves. We want to feel curiosity, awe, and wonder about things that unfold on epic scales. And most importantly, we want to belong to and contribute to something that has lasting significance beyond our own individual lives.

I don't think sport is meaningful. But I understand how people following a team feel like they are seeing things "unfold on epic scales". I feel totally alien to this way of belonging. I'm not saying I'm right - I'm saying I don't experience that feeling of team bonding, and it makes me a little sad.

It's worth noting that the book is several years old, and some of its thoughts about gaming haven't aged well:

Games, after all, are the quintessential autotelic activity. We only ever play because we want to. Games don’t fuel our appetite for extrinsic reward: they don’t pay us, they don’t advance our careers, and they don’t help us accumulate luxury goods.

We now see (some) games as addictive; not voluntary. And with the increase in virtual goods, they often do let players accumulate luxuries. Or, at least, their simulacrum.

I'll admit, there were a few bits which I did connect to.

In fact, it’s not that much of a stretch to say that, for many, the primary reason they play Lexulous is to have an excuse to talk to their mom every day.

That's how I chat with my mother-in-law! A Scrabble clone with an in-game chat! Maybe I'm more normal than I thought? But then I read something like:

NCAA Football 10, you’re not just playing as your favorite college team, you’re playing in service of your favorite college team. You’re actively contributing to their reputation

But, of course, you aren't! It is as hollow as cheering at a match. You feel like you're making a difference, but you're not. The porn-star on screen isn't really moaning for you. It's a trick to make your brain feel happy. And, I think, I'd rather be right than happy.

It flips into my least favourite form of gaming. Gamification of chores and school:

Every chore grants you a customized amount of experience points, virtual gold, treasure, avatar power-ups, or points that increase your virtual skills and abilities: plus ten dexterity points for dusting without knocking anything off the shelves, for example, or plus five stamina points for taking out all three kinds of recycling.

I can't think of anything less motivating. School tried something similar with house points and I just checked out of it. It isn't about reward; it is about control.

The whole thing makes me shudder with revulsion. Take this example:

Take two ordinary commercial flights, flying at the same time in opposite directions between the same two airports. Pit them against each other in an epic battle of online wits and creativity. Passengers spend the duration of the flight working together to earn as many points for their plane as possible. When both planes land, everyone on the plane with the highest score wins.

(“Planemates” might not be a recognized English word yet, but that’s simply because we’ve been woefully underutilizing planes as social spaces.)

All I can think of is that sounds utterly devoid of meaning. Points are pointless. Why would I want to socialise with - or compete with - utter strangers? I just don't see the motivation behind it. I don't want to be in a gang. I don't want my team to win. Like the old joke goes - they would score so many more goals if both teams just worked together!

When we have community, we feel what anthropologists call “communitas,” or spirit of community. Communitas is a powerful sense of togetherness, solidarity, and social connection. And it protects against loneliness and alienation.

Why don't I feel this emotion? What is it inside me that doesn't trust communities? Why am I able to survive and thrive without it?

There is an air of late-noughties enthusiasm for fads like crowdsourcing. Perhaps that will be the future of gaming?

So if not money or prizes, then what will most likely emerge as the most powerful currency in the crowdsourcing economy? I believe that emotions will drive this new economy. Positive emotions are the ultimate reward for participation.

Perhaps it will for some people. But there will always be an easier way to earn a stronger emotion. Ephemeral rewards - like increased reputation - are only useful if you can convert them into something tangible. Because, in the end, it all comes down to money.

There's a piece of prediction which nearly hits the mark:

Imagine it’s Friday afternoon, and I have an important favor to ask of you. For the good of the planet, you need to try to conserve as much energy as possible at home this weekend. Turn off your lights earlier, charge your electronics less frequently, unplug your toaster, hang your clothes on a clothesline instead of using the dryer. How hard would you try to do me that favor?

Now let’s say I told you that I had a hundred dollars riding on your ability to reduce your overall energy usage by at least 20 percent this weekend. How hard would you try to help me win?

This came true! UK energy companies are encouraging people to use less electricity. But, crucially, they are not giving away points or happy feelings. They're paying people.

Sure, there's some gamification nudges - your neighbour did better than you!!! - but for most people the motivator is cash.

The book takes a weird turn towards the end. The author truly believes that they can design a series of games which will positively impact the world. I'm reminded of Peter Cook's quote about the power of satire in the 1930s...

It posits that we need to create a better game. A bigger game. Something for all of us to strive towards

But the game would be a throughline for humanity, a tangible connection between our actions today and the world our descendants inherit tomorrow. It would create a sense of awe and wonder, inspiring us to imagine how this massively scaled adventure we are a part of could play out, and to make as meaningful an impact in the game as possible, so we can make a difference in our lifetime that lasts for many lifetimes more.

A new religion. Humans seem hardwired to want to take part in epic stories. To feel like we're part of history. That our names will be sung about in the future. That we will be heroic. Well... some humans.

Some of us want to try the occasional novel experience, pretend to be a superhero for a few minutes, and experience an artificially generated dopamine bump.

This is a good book. But I am the wrong audience for it. It explains a part of the world that I just don't see and - if I'm honest - distrust. I would love to live in a world where we could harness gaming for good. But I fear the consequences of misdirecting that energy.

It is a million years ago, and my brother and I have just spent all of our pocket money (and a good deal of next year's) on a state-of-the-art PENTIUM 75 desktop. With 200MB of hard drive space, and more RAM than we'd ever seen (8MB), it was a beast. We chose it because it came with a CD-ROM Drive. Sure, we told mum and dad that the Encarta Encyclopedia would help with our studies - but really, we wanted the games! X-Wing! Zork! And, of course, Day of the Tentacle!

So, twenty-mumble years later, there's a remastered version available for free on PlayStation Now - with a Directors' Commentary! - how does it compare to my memory?

Much like the remastering of The Secret of Monkey Island the graphics have been lovingly recreated so they look identical to how I remember them. Gorgeous globs of cartoon colour brightening up the darkest day.

The jokes are still silly, good natured, and have aged pretty well. The puzzles are (mostly) pretty logical, with plenty of clues along the way.

The weird thing is, I remembered some of the solutions. How come I can remember that putting a jumper in a tumble drier for 400 years will shrink it to the size of a hamster - but not what my credit card PIN is? Brains, eh!?

I've no idea how my brother and I completed it all those years ago. We must have got stuck, but we didn't have the Internet to help us work through some of the more obtuse puzzles. Did we write down every combination we tried? Did we ask the other kids in school for help? Did we write in to a magazine and then wait a month?

I've no idea.

As it happens, my wife and I only got truly stuck twice (getting the mouse, and getting the crowbar) and - after an hour of patient and logical shouting at each other - looked up a walkthrough.

The Directors' Commentary is pretty good - a jumble of insights from the people who originally made the game. It occasionally turns into "do you remember who coloured that pixel green?" but provides some interesting anecdotes about the making of the game and the technology behind it.

I remember getting months of entertainment out of the game. But it was all over and done with in a couple of evenings. The human memory is a fickle friend.

So, after months of memes, I bought Untitled Goose Game on the Nintendo Switch to play over the Xmas break. I baulked at the price - £18 - but figured since everyone else on Twitter enjoyed it, I would as well.

I settled down to play it one afternoon, picked it up the next morning, and was staggered to discover I'd completed it! I am not good at video games. I didn't look up any walkthroughs. The game is short, and pretty crappy value for money.

Goose is fun while it lasts. It's not-quite innovative, the puzzles mostly consist of move Thing A to Place B. It's charming and silly. I did enjoy it while I was playing. I suppose the best thing I can say about it is that the whole thing is too short to be repetitive.

(If you think you've read this blog post before, you're right. 5 years ago, after seeing the Internet fawn over a cutesy puzzle game, I wrote "Is Monument Valley Overpriced? Yes." I don't learn my lesson, do I?)

So, does the Goose experience represent value for money?

£/minute

£18 for 5 hours' of entertainment is about the same price-per-minute as a couple of cinema tickets to see the latest Star Wars movie. It's cheaper than going out for cocktails, or a fancy meal.

But it's vastly more expensive than reading a book. The average book I read tends to have a value of about £0.50-per-hour.

OK, but videogames are a different experience to other forms of entertainment.

Goose's £3.60/hour pales into comparison to any of the thousands of free games available on mobile. Many of them are just as fun and innovative. And, did I mention, much cheaper.

My wife plays a lot of open-world games on the PlayStation 4. A second-hand copy of The Witcher, Spider-Man, or any other recent AAA game costs around £20 and offers literally hundreds of hours of gameplay.

Novelty as value

There's another aspect - how much do you value original experiences.

Terence Eden is on Mastodon

@edent

Replying to @edentThe more I think about it, the grumpier I get with @panic's #UntitledGooseGame.

It is fun, while it lasts. But it is just *so* short. No replayability. A few good puzzles, and highly memetic, sure. But it's a rip-off in £-per-minute of enjoyment.

Oh well, lesson learned.

---

Laura James

@LaurieJ

Replying to @edent@edent @panic I see the $/hr argument, but the novelty of the game - how memorable and accessible it is, compared to so many other games - makes it worth the premium to me. Ludic value

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I'd rather go to a new restaurant than eat in the same place twice. As my Untappd data shows, I've never met a new beer that I didn't want to try!

Goose is novel. I've never played as a mischievous bird before. So, reluctantly, I accept the Ludic Value argument.

Shared experience as value

The real gameplay was the memes we made along the way? @GothyTim

And, I guess this is the real reason I see the new Star Wars movies on their opening day. I want to share the experiences with my friends. I don't want to have to dodge spoilers, I want to understand the cryptic memes,

So, this is the future. I can go and read "Moby Dick" for free, and maybe I'll be able to find some dusty social-network where people endlessly discuss Herman Melville. Or I can have a moment of zeitgeist which relies on a mass of people simultaneously experiencing novelty. That's (part of) the reason people buy new books, watch new films, and play new games - even when there's an infinite amount of better, cheaper entertainment.

It's football, isn't it?

I've never understood the sorts of sports fan who say "We won against Melchester!" - obviously they had nothing to do with it.

But they had a shared experience. One which evoked feelings of tribal loyalty, the drama of success and failure, and the soap-opera of personalities. The value isn't in the winning or losing - it's in the discussing with friends, reliving the good times, and feeling part of a community.

I guess I don't have that gene, so will go back to playing obscure, single-player games, with no community, for free.

I remember when I stopped beating my wife. I used to beat her regularly without ever wondering why. Without really considering how it made her feel, the effect on our relationship or the effect it had on me.

Beating her was just something I did. I didn't take any particular joy in it. I wasn't experiencing huge emotional relief after she was beaten - I didn't feel smug, self-satisfied or powerful. Deep down I knew that beating someone when it's not a fair fight is no kind of victory.

I can come up with various excuses as to why it happened. People used to beat me - they did fairly regularly. That's no excuse - but I found myself beaten so many times that I just became numb. The pain and humiliation that a child feels when defeated is almost too much to bear. So I removed it. Next time I was beaten I simply sighed and moved on.

I can remember the first time I beat someone. After a disastrous inter-school Chess competition - yes, I was that kid - I tried out for the Scrabble team.

I beat everyone. Every single one of them.

I know I felt a flush of pride. A sense of worth and of power. This is what winning feels like. It felt good. Great in fact.

I didn't like it.

I saw in the face of my opponent the crushed spirit that I had known for too long. I realised that the price of victory is failure. I couldn't stand the heavy responsibility of causing that much pain and anguish in another... But I carried on anyway.

I learned to quash the shame of victory just as I had quashed the shame of defeat.  Success was marginally preferable to failure, so I competed only when there was a fairly decent chance of winning.

I used to beat my wife at computer games, board games, and quizzes. I thought that's what I was expected to do. Play my hardest. Play for victory. Crush my opponent. Damn the consequences.

But winning never felt good. It never made me happy. Any short lived joy came at the expense of my partner's unhappiness.

Command And Conquer changed all that. For the first time, we could play collaboratively. We would team up to defeat an opponent - working together against an emotionless enemy. An aggressor who didn't mind when we beat him mercilessly.

From then on, the majority of games we've played have been collaborative. The Lego Star Wars, Batman & Indiana Jones games are perfect examples. Not only can you play together - it's actively encouraged. Victory only comes through teamwork. Not one leader instructing a team - but players working collectively.

Where games are single player - we've found ways to work together. On Zelda, I take charge of the fine co-ordinated jumping puzzles and my wife does the rest. We sit together and solve the logic puzzles, plan where to go next, strategise our next move.

Do we sometimes argue? Do we fight over who messed up? Do we moan about who snatched defeat from the jaws of victory? Of course we do! But we're not fighting each other - we're fighting for each other.

My only regret is that there aren't more collaborative games. Lego, Boom Bloxx, Rock Band - what else? Too many games pit you against your friends. Why would I want to beat my friends? I like my friends - I don't want to defeat them. I love my wife and don't want to beat her.

Playing together is much more fun than playing against one another.