The case of Depth vs. Gameplay

When making a game, the question of depth should be answered with so much flair and expression, that the very words used to describe it serve only to taint the perfect picture formed within the designer’s mind. When making a game, depth should be an

When making a game, the question of depth should be answered with so much flair and expression, that the very words used to describe it serve only to taint the perfect picture formed within the designer's mind. When making a game, depth should be an unfathomable beast held only in check by the project leader. When making a game, choices on dialogue, characters, items and places should be detailed, expansive and always open.

Take note of the italics in the next statement. This is very important.

When making a game, depth should never be handed over to the player.

Never.

Cue jaw-dropping, hate mail and cries for the guillotine. Fair trial judge, fair trial! So, where is the evidence to prompt such a fight? Why, right here.

Depth in games is an articulate art, a balancing act to provide the player with enough to hold their interest, but not so much as to overwhelm them. A game requires a nice, smooth, consistent story, with real characters that make sense. It cannot be stressed how important consistency is to a game. Most of the time, this rule is broken, usually not by any intentional act from the designer, but by the game itself. The subtle essence the blows softly into your eyes and into your brain, that savoury dish of NPC interaction and non-linear story paths, are corrupted, violently and remorselessly. Haven't got a clue. Read on.

'Wow, I'm head of the Wizard's Guild. Now what can I do?'
Nothing.

'Hey, I bought the most powerful ship, what can I take over?'
Nothing.

'How about this magic crystal, the one that's supposed to grant powers of…'
Nope, you can do f**k all. Congratulations for doing so much hard work, but there is nothing you can do to take advantage of your efforts.

'No, no damn you. I won't believe it!' - it strikes you then, as if God himself, or perhaps a curious, bored Devil, has borne a torrential downpour of pain, destruction and sadness upon your defenceless, fragile ego. You're useless now. Get over it. That door you couldn't enter, you still can't. The person you couldn't talk to, he never had anything to say in the first place.

That word again, never. In a different context; but still the same, punctuating, ravaging word that signals that the game has final abandoned your imagination, leaving it stricken and shaking in the virtual dungeon of useless, lifeless characters. Characters who will never – there it is again – see the light of an electron again.

And you're a party to this toxic disgorging, this abomination in the gaming world, this… thing. This creature of filth and misery will leave you searching for your humanity, just like the Nameless One from Planescape: Torment.

How's that for an opening statement? Makes you want to see the offender, the creature with the knife that dug deep, and sliced into the precious dream, and made hope, its lifeblood, pulse and pump into puddles of nothing - the ideal coating for the harsh floor of our virtual dungeon. Bring 'it' forward, sergeant-at-arms!

Morrowind - Public enemy number one.
'Get out you bag of empty promises. Your lies are not welcome here.' Words instantly formed without thought. You remember the hours, days and weeks spent trudging the gorgeous, full island; talking to people of wonderful, fantastical races; battled, combated, casted atronachs and vampires into the rifts of hell; saved slaves; made weapons; built a stronghold.

Built a stronghold. Amazing - the feeling, nay, the emotion of achievement and greatness, of successes rewarded, of enduring fulfilment oozed over you. The sight etched a ward in your calendar of stupendous events – and cataclysmic failures.

Yes, 'oozed', for it left you unprepared for its suffocating effect. The stronghold you so lovingly fought for, died for (and restored for) is a vacant idol of compromises and limits. It became a prison for your hopes and beliefs, a prison with only one key. It serves no purpose other than to show how phallic you really are. Where is the functionality or the continued presence? 'Where?' you ask in desperation. However, the question you should be asking is not 'Where is the depth?' but 'Where is the key?'

The key, friends, lies in the Elder Scrolls Construction Kit - saviour, and villain. Keen to continue the quest, keen to press on, you open the wrapping and watch, amazed, as the core, the very fibres woven, are exposed and untangled in a semi-comprehendible presentation. It is then you realise the curse; the great burden placed upon your imagination. You have swapped your cage for a box, a tiny, airless box, where your creativity may flourish, at the expensive of your excitement and joy - a very high price to pay.

Morrowind: a gaming experience crushed with a single double click. That's all the jury needs to hear. It is best if we close now, your lordship.

You see, by trying to expand the game into something more, you unknowingly did two things; removed the veil that lies between the player and the internals of the gaming world - a big no-no for any game you intend to play; and opened the part of a gamer's mind that hides the fact that an editor means death. A game editor releases you instantly from the binds placed so carefully by the game. You need that sword, just place it somewhere easy to get. Creature too hard to kill, remove it. Just knowing that you can do these things with ease, removes the challenge, the feeling granted when a hard task is accomplished, a tough quest tackled.

In the end, depth is hard. Rock hard. It is doubtful anyone will tame this element – if it should be tamed at all – but letting the player roll his own destroys something, something unrecoverable. This is an element whose isotopes have a half-life of infinity – you simply don't recover from this sort of radiation.

Wear the Hazmat suit, brace for the impact - whatever. Just be prepared for the pain.

Logan Booker