“Gnhhh!”

“Whhhhaaaah!”

“Bah….ah….gahhhhhh…”

“Hmmmf!”

“Ehiehhh…”

“Mhaemm!”

These grunts, sighs, squeals and miscellaneous other vocalizations compose roughly 1/4 of the dialogues in the early hours of Final Fantasy XIII.

One one hand, they’re to be expected; Japan is known for its plethora of exclamations and onomatopoeiae. On the other — when translated literally — they make for a poor localization.

These sounds are often louder and longer than their English counterparts, or they simply have no equivalents. As such, they’re difficult to remove or replace and are usually left untouched. They’ve even become something of an accepted “quirk” among the more dedicated fans of Japanese media, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t be handled in a friendlier fashion.

I think the localization team for FFXIII wanted to give Vanille a unique voice -- much like the Björk-esque Fran in FFXII -- but voice actress' performance is a bit of a mess.

As things stand, vocalizations often come across as alien and awkward. They break the flow of conversation and the suspension of disbelief, and can leave a new audiences feeling put off.

Sure, one can always argue for the purity and cultural authenticity of any given product, but that’s being a bit of a stick in the mud. Literal translations lack context and social nuances, and those fully familiar with them might as well experience the original versions. In order to make the products easily digestible by a different audience, though, some things need to change. FF XIII in particular is a title Square Enix wanted to be a global blockbuster, not just a Japanese game released to a niche audience outside of its home country, so it stands to reason that they’d want to iron out these kinks.

So how can this be done?

A couple of points:

• If possible, simply remove the exclamations altogether. The ones that could easily be cut are left in to keep things consistent and speed up the localization process, so getting rid of them shouldn’t be a big issue.
• Use local equivalents of the vocalizations if available. For example, make a character surprised by a hand on his shoulder utter a short “Huh?” instead of the original, “Mnhaaa?”
• Use actual words or sentences for sounds that have no local counterparts. A character crying out “Gwahhhhhhhhhhhh!” for three seconds after witnessing a car crash could easily be replaced with a quick “Oh my god!”
• Meld the exclamations into the speech itself. I’m not an expert, but I noticed many of the vocalizations were isolated within the dialogue, whereas in English they’d part of it, e.g., “Mmmm, I don’t know about thaaaaaaaat.”
• Finally, keep these points in mind when developing the game, and provide the team(s) with the tools necessary to port it. Automated lip-synching is already widely used, but I’m sure other functionality — or just the permission to alter the in-game cutscenes — would be appreciated.

Of course there are more issues to consider as well — perhaps toning down on the dramatic, clenched-fist poses with characters uttering such phrases as “I’ll do my best!” — but those are a whole other topic…

Fiction writers usually despise lists such as “The top 50 character archetypes!” The reason for this is that even the most meticulously pre-planned stories begin in the magical land of the imagination and continue to evolve until they’re completed. Appending these tales with stock concepts doesn’t really enhance them, and the end results often resemble poorly written soap operas.

In the spirit of poking a bit of fun at such things, here’s Aaron Diaz‘s 42 Essential 3rd Act Twists.

The "unreliable reader" and "stolen identity not worth it" are two of my favourites.

Also, for a more videogame-centric list of what keeps popping up in our medium, check out TVTropes’ videogame section.

James Parker has an interesting entry in his blog that centers on sports titles and their play-by-play commentaries. James argues that games like FIFA 09 contain responsive narratives that come much closer to player-generated stories than anything else in the medium.

Is this a story? Well, technically, but that doesn't mean it's a great one.

Although there have been much more ambitious attempts at such systems, I’d have to agree that none have pulled it off quite as well.

Chris Crawford’s Balance of Power: 21st Century, for example, has a much grander scope than a typical sports game. The freedom it provides, though, tends to create expectations of an infinitely open experience that the game can’t possibly match. As a result, the initial play can be exhilarating, but the sensation quickly wears off when the player runs into a situation where he cannot do what he desires.

Of course the more focused nature of sports games isn’t their only advantage when it comes to telling dynamic stories. The games’ audience often recognizes and empathizes with the game’s cast: the athletes. Furthermore, the purely voice-driven commentaries inherently convey emotion and are easier to digest than text.

The emoticon-like faces help to add personality to the game, but the Madlibs effect is hard to ignore.

As was pointed out on Gim Crack’d, the Madlibs approach of Balance of Power just doesn’t come off quite as organic. Its phrasal templates are powerful, but not subtle, and their patterns are relatively easy to spot. The end results are robotic strings of text that look like a programmer’s debug output, i.e.:

“The [a] successfully captured [b] in [c].”

“Production of [x] increased by [n] during [t].”

As I’ve stated before, I’m more a fan of the game telling a story rather than it becoming a storytelling tool for the player. Still, commentaries can be — and have been for a long time now — useful in more crafted experiences. Their obvious boon is that they serve as a reward and an acknowledgement of the player’s actions. Beyond that, they can also be used to point out gameplay elements and encourage the player to reflect on the story.

JRPGs are notorious for their rudimentary and often entirely artificial choices, e.g., “Do you want to save the princess?” Chances are that no matter how many times you pick no, the game will keep asking you the same question until you choose “yes.” However, despite being a very shallow interaction, these moments serve to pause the narrative and remind the player that there is a princess that needs saving. Commentaries on the player’s actions — or inaction, for that matter — can be used in much the same way.

The protagonist of Aquaria also serves as its narrator, describing the backstory and commenting on events as they transpire.

What’s more, these commentaries can inform the player of the consequences of his actions, or just general plot points that might’ve been missed. In a way, it’s almost like having a short conversation with a friend while watching a movie; it can serve to fill in the gaps and provide a new point of view.

Whether linear or open-ended, and whether on a sporadic or a constant basis, games that have used commentaries were largely better for it. Just think of Guybrush Threepwood’s quips in Monkey Island, uppity Baldur’s Gate characters, the prince’s narration in Sands of Time, Alyx Vance’s feedback in Half-Life, the “barks” of Call of Duty team members, etc., all these titles would’ve been a lot more silent, dull and lonely without their great use of commentaries.

It might not be that apparent, but storytelling used to be a very interactive phenomenon. Dig a bit into its roots, and you’ll find plenty of examples/evidence.

From the Neverwinter Nights website, one of the tutorials on how to use the DM/GM tool.

Interactive storytelling in videogames, though, is a bit different. Aside from Neverwinter Nights attempting to simulate a Game Master‘s campaign, the typical arrangement is to have the player(s) progress through a predefined arc. If no arc exists, then the game is usually devoid of any real plot. Many simulation games take this approach with few pre-determined goals and no real characters, drama, or concrete story-structure. The player has little to empathize with, and the game is excused as being tool for the story itself, i.e., the player creates whatever story he desires in his own head. This might work very well for gameplay, but it tends to force the player into becoming the sole storyteller and audience, which isn’t as universally appealing.

Of course I’m also a bit biased as I prefer finely crafted, authoritative stories. These afford little room for changing major plot points, but the minor details can still be left up to the player. For example, in the grand scheme of things, it makes little difference if the player takes a bus or a taxi to the villain’s lair as long as the villain’s identity is not variable. Change too many significant plot points such as that one, though, and the story begins to lose its cohesiveness. The player becomes aware that there is no “true” plotline, and he starts transitioning from the role of the audience to that of a storyteller who’s not really in control.

When I was a kid, the noncanonical "What...if?" series were something of a guilty pleasure for me.

It’s a very gray area, and some people still enjoy an enormous amount of narrative freedom, but I find that it dilutes things as a whole. Instead, I prefer story-driven games to give me a large amount of gameplay freedom without presenting me with grand, “what-if” scenarios.

This has been a pretty popular approach in games, with some pulling it off better than others, but I haven’t really seen in done in any cooperative titles. Granted the popularity of co-op is fairly recent, and it’s a concept that’s still very rough around the edges, e.g., duplicate collectibles, constant teleporting to fit cutscenes, respawning glitches associated with trigger spots, etc. Despite these gameplay issues — and, in a way, as a possible solution to some of them — I’ve been mulling over a game that would combine a preset plotline with multiple human players. The idea behind it is to abandon the “single decider” role and make every character a part of the story, giving each one power to affect it.

A good destination for grafting this concept might be a Brothers In Arms type game.

Now imagine you and your friends as a group of Allied soldiers sent into enemy territory on a vital mission. Obviously you want to keep each other alive and fight as a well-oiled machine, but you also need to keep civilian casualties to a minimum. Here’s where each of the players begins to have an individual impact as the squad itself is punished and rewarded as a whole.

Let’s also assume that each player takes on a role of a specific character. The Staff Sergeant roughly plots the route of advancement, the logistics officer decides on the mode of transportation, while the translator is tasked with negotiating with the locals to acquire the necessary vehicle.

In addition to purely gameplay oriented aspects, though, this can extend to the plotline itself.

Although it was quite good in parts, Brothers in Arms failed to be the videogame version of Band of Brothers. Maybe the characters just didn't get enough screen-time?

Upon reaching their destination, the squad kidnaps a renowned scientist that’s notorious for conducting experiments on war prisoners. One of the characters despises him based on his past experience with liberating concentration camps, and wants to kill him right there and then. Another one of the troops, though, had his family snatched away by enemy forces, and the scientist promises to divulge information about his loved ones if he’s allowed to escape.

What would make this even more interesting is if these choices were (at least sometimes) presented each player in secret, ensuring that his companions were unaware of such pivotal moments. This could create a very intimate bond between each player and the game’s story, and make each one feel like a big part of it.

Now these kinds of choices would be difficult to balance for everyone involved, but they would make for a drastically more immersive experience. What’s more, they could also enhance the single-player mode with more human characters that don’t just act as obedient automatons. Instead, they could base their decisions on the player’s actions, with some randomization thrown in for good measure.

Group participation has been tinkered with a bit in MMOs, but those games tend to be stories of each player’s character, and group events usually boil down to fighting a big and powerful monster. There’s a lot more possibilities beyond just that, though, and I’m curious if any of these AAA games that laud their co-op campaigns will risk exploring them.

The videogame field is very competitive, with every company — no matter how big or small — trying to sell a product. As a result, it’s a breeding ground for elevator pitches. These often revolve around such bullet points as “We have this unique take on cover gameplay!” or “It’s a hidden-object game with a real inventory!”

The boy meets girl theme is strangely absent from videogames.

As John Davison pointed out, though, videogames are not really a niche product. They compete for attention with TV, movies, YouTube, Facebook, etc., so I’m a little surprised that more elevator pitches don’t concentrate on universal themes. So what exactly are themes? Well, here’s a pretty thorough summary from Wikipedia:

“A theme is an idea, message, or lesson conveyed by a written text. This message is usually about life, society, or human nature. Themes often explore timeless and universal ideas. Most themes are implied rather than explicitly stated. The theme is different from the superficial outlay of the text; it is normally the meaning of the text on a more abstract level.”

Yes, themes are more a staple of the literary world, but they’re very powerful when it comes to evoking emotions. Consequently, when you’re trying to get a general audience to emphasize with your product, the premise of a theme is much more identifiable than a gameplay element.

Not that games are completely devoid of themes. Quite the contrary, actually. However, most game themes are usually repeated over and over again. They’re the epic struggles of good vs. evil, or the hero quest, but there are many more possibilities. An interesting thing about themes, too, is that they can quite naturally affect and steer gameplay elements (often in new and unique ways).

Here are a few quick examples.

1). Triumph through perseverance.

A sports game centering around an athlete’s fall from grace due to a (seemingly) career-ending injury. This could fit virtually any sports genre and take the athlete through a quest for a second shot at the big leagues. Starting with rehabilitation, various minigames (or handicapped scenarios of the full game) could act as something of a tutorial, guiding the player through all the necessary steps on the path to a successful comeback.

2). Honour and familial bonds.

A strategy game following the life of a disgraced warlord in feudal Japan. In order to protect his family and subordinates, the shogun went against the proper code of conduct, which was then used by his politicking general to overthrow him. The game itself could revolve around a quest for retribution while implementing various elements of Bushido into strategic combat.

Mario & Sonic at the Olympics -- what more do you need to know?

3). Liberation from slavery.

There aren’t too many fantasy settings that go for a post-apocalyptic feel, and even fewer videogames (Soul Reaver being the only non-licensed one I can think of), but I’ve always been interested in scenarios where the good guys don’t win. Namely, what happens afterwards? Well, how ’bout a typical Tolkien-derived RPG that breaks a few cliches? Enslaved humans that often suffer from Stockholm syndrome, Orc sympathizers that are helping with an underground rebellion, a struggle for freedom in the face of an oncoming genocide, etc.

Of course many videogames have minimal narrative and virtually no storyline, but those too can be thematically summed up, i.e., what is the game about, exactly? This summary doesn’t even have to mention any actual gameplay mechanics, just evoke enticing possibilities. Take for instance Mario Party, Guitar Hero and Wii Fit — none of these games have much in the way of a “plot,” but their titles alone are quite iconic. And they also sold bucketloads of copies.

The future face of Halo.

A famed speculative fiction author, Greg Bear earned his reputation with works heavily rooted in science. Blood Music and others catapulted him to the upper echelon of SF writers, and his wife seems to be following in similar footsteps. However, Mr. Bear’s prose doesn’t exactly flow like honey. His stories are often bursting at the seams with hard science, and that’s rarely an ideal foundation for a pulpy, nonthreatening book series.

Now I never read any of the Halo novels, but I’m assuming they’re aimed at a fairly broad audience. I’m also sure that many Halo fans are smart cookies that would love more actual science in their fiction, but the Halo universe is based on a game series, and, as such, its setting is ultimately shaped by game design. Human soldiers wear ridiculously coloured outfits because it makes them easier to identify in multiplayer matches, and high-pitched aliens spew comical one-liners because it makes them more entertaining cannon fodder. It’s all fun and good, but is it suitable subject matter for something more realistic?

Then again Greg Bear has already written a Star Wars book, so maybe he is the right guy for the job. Either way, I am suddenly a whole lot more interested in the future of the Halo novels.

Writing about games, though, should be different. Videogame journalists are primarily writers that are the sole authors of singular pieces relatively small in scope, and they also have an editorial staff backing them up.

Well, one would hope.

I kind of do...

I’m not too intrigued by the idea of consumer reviews vs. artistic critiques — I think both are relevant, although it’s very hard combining them  – but neither approach should be exempt from, to put it quite simply, the proper use of words. Matthew has been known to point out an example or two of this, and I’ve decided to do something similar. Below are three definitions of some frequently misused words in the land of videogame writing.

1). Ironically

This is a tricky one, but, as a general rule of thumb, simple coincidences are not necessarily ironic.

In short, “ironically” is not a synonym for “incidentally” or “conversely.”

As a side note, before Matthew Sturges did all the funny-book stuff, he taught me a bit about definitions and grammar. He also wrote a somewhat famous article about Alanis Morissette’s song “Ironic.” It’s a good read, although whoever archived it seems to have mangled it up a bit.

2). Irreverent

Irreverent does not mean wacky, original or interesting.

Irreverence is basically an antonym of reverence. This means that the act of being irreverent must fly in the face of something that’s revered. Also, it helps to explicitly state the subject of said irreverence — simply saying that a game is irreverent is an extremely vague description.

3). Comprised (of)

“Comprised of” is an incorrect usage and a misunderstanding of the word. Yes, I know it sounds right, but it isn’t.

Comprised (complete with the redundant “of”) is often used to tick off a bullet-point list of a title’s defining qualities. Instead, “consists of” or “is composed of” should be used, i.e., fifty states comprise the United States of America, and the United States of America is composed of fifty states.

It might be a lost battle, though, as “comprised of” is fairly prevalent in all sorts of writing and is well on its way to becoming the next flammable.

The quintessential image of a melodrama.

Today, most forms of entertainment media are melodramas, and the “common folk” are the mainstream audience. Even when aiming for the so-called lowest common denominator, though, melodramas don’t have to be bad.

There are a lot of negative connotations that accompany the term: black and white characters, formulaic stories, sensational confrontations, implausible coincidences and a rigid commitment to happy endings. Still, these can easily become positives by embodying: unambiguous characters, clear plotlines, emotional climaxes, exciting twists and satisfying finales.

This is the difference between pathos and bathos.

Unfortunately, stories in videogames tend to fall into the latter category. It might simply be an after-effect of their heritage — after all, games are still largely perceived as toys, and everyone (including most publishers and developers) seems to have a hard time accepting the fact that the average gamer can legally purchase alcohol. Of course I also understand that it’s safer to accommodate the youth while banking on the loyalty of older, nostalgic fans, but the same writing principles should apply regardless of the target age-group.

I wouldn't be surprised if this character turns out to be a fun but gruff rebel with a heart of gold. As leader of the resistance, he'll probably be punching out tanks with a bunch of other teenagers as they attempt to save the world.

Final Fantasy is a good (or bad, depending on your outlook) example of this. The 8-bit/16-bit games were great for grade-schoolers, and while the later ones swung their focus to teenagers, they were pretty trite and not nearly as sophisticated as one might think. Someone on Slashdot: Games once responded to a post about Square-Enix’s titles saying (and I’m paraphrasing here): “They’re to deepness what Goths are to people with severe clinical depression: showy, self-infatuated shells that take on the trappings instead of the content.” Regrettably, that’s a very accurate description.

So how do we avoid this? If we have to stick to melodrama, how do we fill it with pathos, not bathos?

It’s quite simple, really: respect the setting, the story and the characters.

That’s it.

You don’t have to be Shakespeare, you just have to examine your own work and ask: “Is this good, or is it…laughable?” Everyone has their own subjective preferences, but this alone would eliminate a plethora of banal storytelling in videogames.