I’ve been thinking and writing a lot lately about goals. I think that a lot of that stems from working on a product that’s built solely to measure progress: one of the first parts of the implementation is talking through the things that they’re trying to achieve, and thus, what they need to measure to figure out when they’ve succeeded. And that got me thinking about video games.
I grew up with electronic gaming in my blood. And like many fellow gamers in my age bracket, our home first system was a “Sears Tele-Games”, an Atari 2600 rebranded (and, like everything in 1977, covered in faux-wood paneling) for the catalog retailer.
Now, you can’t not know the Atari 2600. It was the original classic home gaming console, singlehandedly responsible for creating the home console market that today continues with the likes of the Playstation, the Xbox, and the Wii. It was also singlehandedly responsible for nearly killing the burgeoning industry in its infancy with commercial disasters like a home version of Pac-Man that barely resembled the quarter-gobbling arcade original, and the very first “terrible, terrible game based on a movie,” the Atari tie-in to Spielberg’s E.T. I think even the biggest non-gamer has heard the (true) story of how the excess unsold games had to be buried under concrete in a New Mexico landfill–and how more cartridges were manufactured than there were actual Atari 2600s on which to play said cartridges.
The thing about games of that generation is that they were simple. Home games were usually based on games that had already appeared in video arcades, and those sorts of games were designed with one goal in mind: to get your quarters. Only three things mattered: a) staying alive so you could b) make it to the next level so you could c) score more points. Once your three lives were gone, your score went back to zero; you could only extend your game by having enough skill to get enough points for extra lives, or by inserting more quarters for another go.
It’s important to note here that there was no way to “win”. You played for a high score. You could gain extra life after extra life; perhaps you could even “flip” the score like a car’s odometer rolling over, but at no point did the credits roll or a victory screen display.
What would have been the point? The gamer at that time played for the glory of playing, and the ultimate “victory” was not having to stop. The ultimate reward was an extra life, and a few more precious seconds of entertainment on the back of that single, shiny quarter.
Of course, Atari went bankrupt and home gaming nearly went with it. But it wasn’t long before a new player emerged, and eventually, a new style of gaming: Nintendo recognized that the term “video game” was anathema to the marketplace, and so described its new console as an “Entertainment System.” Furthermore, significantly more of the titles for the NES and competitor Sega’s new “Master System” were original concepts not based on proven arcade titles. And unlike arcade games, whose hours of trial, error and repetition were rewarded by longer game sessions, these games had a different reward: you could “win”.
Now, there were certainly arcade titles that could be “won,” but they were few and far between. In general, 25 cents got you three ships or men or robots or mobile gun platforms, and you shot and jumped and dodged and punched until your last man died. End of story.
You couldn’t save the princess. Or, if you did, you got 2500 points and a trip to the next level, to save her again.
Many of the new generation of home titles, however, actually had a robust story, and with that story, a satisfactory end…an end that didn’t contain the words “game over” or the exhortation to “insert another coin”. In fact, new developments like in-game password systems or “save games” made it possible for players to slowly progress the story and, stage by stage, level by level, add cumulative powers and abilities to their in-game characters, before facing the “final boss” and, often, rescuing some unlucky damsel in distress.
And then, the credits would play, and some sort of story would explain what happened after the princess was rescued. In the earlier years, this ending was simple and generic–“Thank you for saving me!” and a peck on the cheek–and was often followed by a “second quest,” another go-around at the game with more significant challenges. As time has gone by and games have developed cinematic qualities and more deep and complex storylines, the resolutions have largely become more cinematic and complex as well.
If this was really an article about video games, we could go on about this for hours. But the important thing to remember is this: most games today, you can win. Back then, all you could do was survive.
Atari games were primitive, blocky and simplistic, with limited colors, abstract graphics, and gameplay that makes ball-in-cup look like chess. But they might have been more realistic all along.
I don’t mean in terms of story–the Mario Brothers have been saving the same princess for years now, and that’s still more intricate a tale than something called “Target Fun.” I mean the basic idea of “winning.” Of what happens when you “finish” the game.
Let’s not get depressing here, and let’s also leave religion out of it: what happens after you depart this life is a subject of much discussion and disagreement. I can see somebody saying “but you do win the game of life when you enter Heaven or Paradise or become enlightened or whatever” and that’s all well and good, but it also involves the game, e.g. your life, coming to an end, doesn’t it? And don’t say “but I did this thing my religion told me and so I’m guaranteed to be okey-dokey when my ticker stops,” because while that’s great, it doesn’t address the core problem here: what do you do in real life after you “win”?
Let’s bring a classic gaming scenario into reality: you’re Mario and you’ve just braved lava and caves and homicidal turtles and you’ve saved the Princess.
Now what?
In the game, we’re never explicitly told what comes next. Probably they get married, have kids, live in the castle. Do they have other adventures? Maybe, but we don’t know, because that would be another game. In the context of our single, solitary game, reaching the end, the “big win,” means not only the ultimate possible reward, but also the ending.
And that’s the thing about real life. When do you “win”?
Is it when you get the new car? You can always get a newer one. The big job? There’s a bigger one. House? Vacation?
What about companionship? Do you get to save the princess then?
Well, sure. But then you get to live with her. And that’s a whole other sort of game.
Which brings up the point that, yes, you can always think of life in terms of a bunch of mini-games inside a larger one. But if “life” is the biggest game of all, you can’t just struggle and strive until you get to the best ending.
What you can do is struggle and strive to stay alive, to dodge, to make it to the next level in the game, to defeat the enemies along the way, to explore every nook and cranny of every map. You can earn points. That is not a euphemism for money. It is a way to think about doing things that matter.
And maybe everything matters, or, at least, the things that you decide matter, matter. Maybe it’s a relaxing day at the beach. Maybe it’s time with your family or spouse. Maybe it’s a bike ride.
We’re getting back into metrics-defining territory. The exciting thing is, you get to choose how you keep score. There’s no real right or wrong way.
Of course, we can’t get past that one, fundamental restriction: you don’t get to choose when you stop playing.
You can’t save the princess. But you do get to find her, and I bet living the rest of your days in a castle is actually pretty nice.
