No, Not That Midway

As we stand listening to the echoes of another E3's passing, my thoughts return once again to the Chicago World's Columbian Exposition of 1893. And I am not directly referring to this year's return to spectacle, although that would probably be legitimate. Instead, E3 makes me think of an event promoter by the name of Sol Bloom¹.

During the initial planning of the World's Fair in Chicago, the Midway Plaisance aspect of the fair was under the direction of the head of the Department of Ethnology at Harvard University. It was intended to be a scholarly depiction of humanity's progress, beginning with an African village and terminating at the fair's "Court of Honour," a series of buildings that were not only themselves architectural marvels, but housed some of Western civilization's latest innovations. It was to be educational and dignified, to the point where Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show was refused inclusion (Cody merely set up the show across the street from the fair's entrance and made a mint).

Now, Bloom had been a successful salesman and promoter in San Francisco, and had left home to see the world at age 19. He ended up at the Parisian World's Fair in 1889 and had witnessed how visitors had flocked to exhibitions of performers from "exotic locales," especially Algeria. Bloom secured a two year contract to represent the Algerians in the Western hemisphere and upon returning to the US in 1891, he implored Chicago's fair board to include his Algerian Village in the midway. He was rebuffed, but upon discovering the stuffy, formal affair the midway's supervisor was intending, he contacted Michael de Young, a member of the national World's Fair organizing committee. Frustrated by the midway's laggard pace, not only did de Young arrange for Bloom's Algerian village to be included, but he offered to pay Bloom to manage the entire midway. At only 21 years of age, Bloom accepted.

Under Bloom's watch, the midway of the World's Columbian Exposition was a tremendous success. Instead of the pretentious, ivory tower affair, the midway was a hurricane of games, restaurants, performances and rides. It featured acts and performers from all over the world, hosted the world's first Ferris Wheel (a towering 80 metre tall structure that carried over 2000 passengers) and to many of the fair's literally millions of attendees, the midway was the most memorable part of the fair. The word "midway" entered into the English vocabulary and is mandatory at every fair, carnival and expo. Bloom himself introduced the "danse du ventre," or belly dance, to Americans and wrote a song (offhandedly, at a press preview no less) that is still familiar even today.

So what does this have to do with video games, beyond giving Mortal Kombat's terminal parent company a name? Bloom understood how to create an environment conducive to entertainment. He understood how to get people excited. And, whether we like it or not, that counts for a lot.

E3 return to spectacle did the same this year. From Natal/Sony's motion thingie to Scribblenauts, there was energy this year. The excitement was palpable and, to be honest, welcome. After six months of depressing closures and layoffs, seeing positivity again was great.

In a lot of ways, E3 is awful. It caters to the lowbrow, hype runs rampant and we could all do with less bullshit. But Bloom exaggerated too; when promoting the fair's colossal Manufacturing building, he didn't merely repeat, as many other had, that it had 36 acres of floor space. He claimed that the entire standing army of Russia could fit within the building. While unlikely, unless it's possible to convince about a million Russian soldiers to occupy about one and a half square feet each, the claim itself didn't matter. Bloom was able to convey the grandeur of the Manufacturing building.

Bloom was not a shyster or a swindler, and this is very important to understand. He delivered upon what he promised. Those that visited the midway at the World's Columbian Exposition saw splendours beyond their wildest imaginations. As those that think games can aspire to far greater than the status quo, it's easy to look down our noses at spectacle. But spectacle doesn't make people excited, spectacle happens because people are excited.

In our efforts to make games more meaningful, we run the risk of doing what the original midway organizers did. By making them too intellectual, we might be taking away what excites people most about games.

[1] - Bloom was actually a rather interesting man even beyond his work at the World's Fair, eventually going on to become a Congressman for many years and serve as a delegate at the convention that founded the UN.

Landscape Architecture as Art and What That Means for Games

"Each of you knows the name and genius of him who stands first in the heart and confidence of American artists, the creator of your own and many other city parks. He it is who has been our best adviser and our constant mentor. In the highest sense, he is the planner of the Exposition. Frederick Law Olmsted. An artist, he paints with lakes and wooded slopes. With lawns and banks and forest-covered hills. With mountainsides and ocean views. He should stand where I do tonight."

Daniel Burnham, 1893

Burnham delivered this as part of an address made at Madison Square Garden to an assemblage of his peers in the fine arts (which the event's invitation listed as painting, sculpture and architecture, emphatically not landscape architecture). The event was meant to praise the work of Burnham and others in creating the World's Columbian Exposition. Olmsted was not actually present; he was in Asheville, Virginia at work on the Vanderbilt's palatial estate, Biltmore House. He would have been quite pleased to hear what Burnham had to say, however. Olmsted's career was marked by fervent efforts to see landscape architecture acknowledged as a true high art form, and despite 19th century high society's tendency for grandiloquent and flattering speech, Burnham's words were truly genuine.

I've written about Olmsted before, and in reading about his effort and craft in The Devil in the White City, I hear echoes of 21st century discussions about games and their stature as an "art form". Spencer Greenwood posted about this yesterday and catalyzed me into finally getting this post together. What he put down is excellent and I highly suggest you give it a look. But the truth is, I think both Olmsted and today's advocates of "games == art" have been led astray.

It's nearly impossible to get two people to agree on what is or is not art. Any definition that somehow manages to satisfy both will be bristling with caveats, exceptions and vagaries. Extrapolate that to an entire community and you get, well, the current state of the "games as art" discussion. The definition of art is so toweringly subjective that trying to have a conversation about what it is and isn't will end up bogged down and make little meaningful progress.

Let us stop. Let's stop talking about what is and is not art and let us talk about what is and is not interesting. It's a more useful discussion and for games, it's clearly true they (or at least some of them) are interesting. Let's make this a discussion on our terms, using terms that are useful. The beauty of the Japanese Garden in Jackson Park is not diminished if a few experts (real or supposed) saying it's not "art." Olmsted felt it was art and he spent his life trying to convince others it was so. But I must confess, I feel he might have had more progress demonstrating how his work had depth and complexity. And I think the advocates of games could gain more ground in doing the same.

I realize likely nothing will quell the "are games art" debate, but if we could at least channel more of the conversation toward "Are games interesting? What do they have to say?" it feels like we'd really be making some progress. Maybe even enough progress that someday someone like Daniel Burnham will speak as he did of Olmsted, but of Miyamoto, Wright, Meyer or Schafer. That's a day I would very much like to see.

Stop and Smell the Pixels: Are Some Games Better in Smaller Doses?

I don't know how many New Yorkers would recognize this man, but nearly all of them would be familiar with one of his greatest works- Central Park. Frederick Law Olmsted might well have been the 19th century's greatest landscape architect. Aside from Central Park, he designed countless other parks, the grounds around the US Capital and the landscape of the World's Columbian Exposition. Without Olmsted, there's no doubt the American public park system would be fundamentally different.

Olmsted is featured prominently in Erik Larson's The Devil in the White City, which I've been reading lately¹. About half of the book focuses on the creation of the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition, from a largely architectural perspective. The other half focuses on a far darker subject, which I'm sure I'll write about before long. What does this have to do with games? Thanks to Iroquois Pliskin, I've been thinking about architecture and games a lot. And there's no reason that can't include landscape architecture.

I'm planning a broader post about Olmsted's efforts to advance recognition of landscape architecture as an art form. But as an introduction, I wanted to comment on something I've observed recently, but was made clear when reading about an essential feature of Olmsted's design philosophy. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Olmsted's works were not meant to be immediately colourful or impressive. Rather, the true design was meant to emerge naturally over a period of years, even decades. Given the reaction I've heard from others about some of the games I've been playing lately, I can't help but wonder if those games are more enjoyable for me because of how I'm playing them.

I don't mean JRPGs that are 80+ hours long, I mean playing the average ~10-20 hour game in shorter bursts over longer periods of time. Mirror's Edge was a rather ... polarizing title. I pre-ordered² and have been playing it off and on since. Usually no more than 30-45 minutes at a time and I've been enjoying it quite a bit. Of course, the sound of meat hitting pavement and a grumbled, "Dammit Faith ..." are not uncommon. Yet I've never been frustrated to the point of wanting to stop, not even close. And I'm not usually one for unforgiving games either (e.g. Mega Man 9). But I can't help but wonder, if I had run (no pun intended) up against those issues for the course of a couple of hours, would I have enjoyed the game less overall? Do those mild annoyances aggregate over a play session?

Chris Remo noted FarCry 2 has a "slow burn" rather than being immediately impressive. I picked it up on Steam when it launched, playing it pretty intensely until Fallout 3 launched and devoured all my gaming time. After finishing one go through Fallout, I've been taking small nibbles out of FC2 much like Mirror's Edge. It compartmentalizes quite well, taking 20-30 minutes to find a mission and finish it, maybe grabbing a diamond or two along the way. Playing it in small bursts I've found to be more enjoyable than the long stretches before Fallout 3. The respawning guard posts are a non-issue and the diamond hunts are challenging instead of repetitive.

Is it just excusing flaws by saying they're less annoying if you face them for shorter periods of time? Perhaps. But it seems like there is some media that is genuinely more enjoyable if it's broken up into smaller pieces. I've noticed people having this reaction when reading Lovecraft. A few stories are fantastic, but reading a whole collection cover to cover without interleaving anything else can be exhausting.

When Olmsted designed Central Park, he did not design a space that would immediately awe and impress. He designed a park that would become increasingly breathtaking as it was visited year after year. If one were to visit the park frequently, it would seem similar. But visiting less often over a longer period of time, growth and change in the park would be striking (that was Olmsted's intent, at least). He intended a space that, even over a hundred years later, would still be a place of serenity and natural beauty in the heart of one of the world's largest cities.



Have you ever played a game slowly, in smaller bits, and ended up enjoying it more than those that powered through it? If so, what kind of game was it? Do you think it was deliberately designed this way, or just a happy accident? I'd like to hear if other people have had similar experiences and if so, what kind of games it was with.

[1] - Technically I've been using my iPhone to listen to the unabridged audio book from Audible at the suggestion of Pseudopod, both of which I highly recommend.
[2] - For the awesome Timbuk2 messenger bag. Timbuk2 bag at a discount + game? Hell yes.