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A psychologist's thoughts on how and why we play games

Monday, March 24, 2014

Intuitions about p

Two of my labmates were given a practice assignment for a statistics class. Their assignment was to generate simulated data where there was no relationship between x and y. In R, this is easy, and can be done by the code below: x is just the numbers from 1:20, and y is twenty random pulls from a normal distribution.

dat=data.frame("x"=1:20,
               "y"=rnorm(20)
               )
m1 = lm(y ~ x, data=dat)
summary(m1)

One of my labmates ran the above code, frowned, and asked me where he had gone wrong. His p-value was 0.06 -- "marginally significant"! Was x somehow predicting y? I looked at his code and confirmed that it had been written properly and that there was no relationship between x and y. He frowned again. "Maybe I didn't simulate enough subjects," he said. I assured him this was not the case.

It's a common, flawed intuition among researchers that p-values naturally gravitate towards 1 with increasing power or smaller (more nonexistent?) effects. This is an understandable fallacy. As sample size increases, power increases, reducing the Type II error rate. It might be mistakenly assumed, then, that Type I error rate also reduces with sample size. However, increasing sample size does nothing to p-value when the null is true. When there is no effect, p-values come from a uniform distribution: a p-value less than .05 is just as likely as a p-value greater than .95!

As we increase our statistical power, the likelihood of Type II error (failing to notice a present effect) approaches zero. However, Type I error remains constant at whatever we set it to, no matter how many observations we collect. (You could, of course, trade power for a reduction in Type I error by setting a more stringent cutoff for "significant" p-values like .01, but this is pretty rare in our field where p<.05 is good enough to publish.)

Because we don't realize that p is uniformly distributed when the null is true, we overinterpret all our p-values that are less than about .15. We've all had the experience of looking at our data and being taunted by a p-value of 0.11. "It's so low! It's tantalizingly close to marginal significance already. There must be something there, or else it would have a really meaningless p-value like p=.26. I just need to run a few more subjects, or throw out the outlier that's ruining it," we say to ourselves. "This isn't p-hacking -- my effect is really there, and I just need to reveal it."

We say hopelessly optimistic things like "p = .08 is approaching significance." The p-value is doing no such thing -- it is .08 for this data and analysis, and it is not moving anywhere. Of course, if you are in the habit of peeking at the data and adding subjects until you reach p < .05, it certainly could be "approaching" significance, but that says more about the flaws of your approach to research than the validity of your observed effects.

How about effect size? Effect size, unlike p, benefits from increasing sample size whether there's an effect or not. As sample size is added, estimates of true effects approach their real value, and estimates of null effects approach zero. Of course, after a certain point the benefits of even more samples starts to decrease: going from n=200 to n=400 yields a bigger benefit to precision than does going from n=1000 to n=1200.

Let's see what effect size estimates of type I errors look like at small and large N.



Here's a Type I error at n=20. Notice that the slope is pretty steep. Here we estimate the effect size to be a whopping |r| = .44! Armed with only a p-value and this point estimate, a naive reader might be inclined to believe that the effect is indeed huge, while a slightly skeptical reader might round down to about |r| = .20. They'd both be wrong, however, since the true effect size is zero. Random numbers are often more variable than we think!



Let's try that again. Here's a Type I error at n = 10,000. Even though the p-value is statistically significant (here, p = .02), the effect size is pathetically small: |r| = .02. This is one of the many benefits of reporting the effect size and confidence interval. Significance testing will always be wrong at least 5% of the time, while effect size estimates will always benefit from power.

This is how we got the silly story about the decline effect (http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2010/12/13/101213fa_fact_lehrer), in which scientific discoveries tend to "wear off" over time. Suppose you find a Type I error in your n=20 study. Now you go to replicate it, and since you have faith in your effect, you don't mind running additional subjects and re-analyzing until you find p < .05. This is p-hacking, but let's presume you don't care. Chances are it will take you more than 20 subjects before you "find" your Type I error again, because it's unlikely that you would be so lucky as to find the same Type I error within the first 20 subjects. By the point that you do find p < .05, you will probably have run rather more than 20 subjects, and so the effect size estimate will be a little more precise and be precipitously closer to zero. The truth doesn't "wear off." The truth always outs.

Of course, effect size estimates aren't immune to p-hacking, either. One of the serious consequences of p-hacking is that it biases effect sizes.

Collect big enough samples. Look at your effect sizes and confidence intervals. Report everything you've got in the way that makes the most sense. Don't trust p. Don't chase p.

Monday, December 9, 2013

Outrageous Fortune, pt. 1

When we sit down to play a game involving dice, we understand that the results are influenced by a combination of strategy and luck. However, it's not always clear which is more important. While we'd like to think our results are chiefly the result of good strategy, and that the role of luck was fair and minimal, it's often difficult to judge. How can we make games which incorporate luck while rewarding strategy?

Luck

In order to add some excitement and variety, many game developers like to add dice rolls to their games to introduce an element of randomness. Dice rolls, the argument goes, add an element of chance that keeps the game from becoming strictly deterministic, forcing players to adapt to good and bad fortune. While some dice rolls are objectively better than others, potentially causing one player to gain the upper hand over another through luck alone, developers claim that things will "average out" in the long run, with a given player eventually experiencing just as much good luck as bad luck.


Most outcomes are near the average, with equal amounts of "good luck" (area above green line) and "bad luck" (area below red line).

Luck should average out

With the effect of luck averaging out, the player with the better strategy (e.g., the player who obtained better modifiers on their rolls) should still be able to reliably perform better.  However, players and developers alike do not often realize just how many rolls are necessary before the effect of strategy can be reliably detected as something above and beyond the effect of luck.

Forums are full of players describing which build has the better average, which is often plain to see with some math. For many players, this is all they need to concern themselves with: they have done the math and determined which build is most effective. The question for the designer, however, is whether the players can expect to see a difference within a single game or session. As it turns out, many of these modifiers are so small compared to the massive variance of a pass-fail check that it takes surprisingly long for luck to "average out".


An example: Goofus and Gallant

For the following example, I'll use Dungeons & Dragons, since that's one most gamers are likely familiar with. D&D uses a 20-sided die (1d20) to check for success or failure, and by adjusting the necessary roll, probability of success ranges from 0% to 100% by intervals of 5%. (In future posts I hope to examine other systems of checks, like those used in 2d6 or 3d6-based RPGs or wargames.)

Consider two similar level-1 characters, Goofus and Gallant. Gallant, being a smart player, has chosen the Weapon Expertise feat, giving him +1 to-hit. Goofus copied all of Gallant's choices but instead chose the Coordinated Explosion feat because he's some kind of dingus. The result is we have two identical characters, one with a to-hit modifier that is +1 better than the other. So, we expect that, in an average session, Gallant should hit 5% more often than Goofus. But how many rolls do we need before we reliably see Gallant outperforming Goofus?

For now, let's assume a base accuracy of 50%. So, Goofus hits if he rolls an 11 or better on a 20-sided die (50% accuracy), and Gallant hits on a roll of 10 or better(55% accuracy). We'll return to this assumption later and see how it influences our results.

I used the statistical software package R to simulate the expected outcomes for sessions involving 1 to 500 rolls. For each number of rolls, I simulated 10,000 different D&D sessions. Using R for this stuff is easy and fun! Doing this lets us examine the proportion of sessions in which Gallant outperforms Goofus and vice-versa. So, how many trials are needed for Gallant to outperform Goofus?


Goofus hits on 11, Gallant hits on 10 thanks to his +1 bonus.


One intuitive guess would be that you need 20 rolls, since that 5% bonus is 1 in 20. It turns out, however, that even at 20 trials, Gallant only has a 56% probability of outperforming Goofus.

In order to see Gallant reliably (75%) outperform Goofus requires more than a hundred rolls. Even then, Goofus will still surpass him about 20% of the time. It's difficult to see the modifier make a reliable difference compared to the wild swings of fortune caused by a 50% success rate.


Reducing luck through a more reliable base rate

It turns out these probabilities depend a lot on the base probability of success. When the base probability is close to 50%, combat is "swingy" -- the number of successes may be centered at 50% times the number of trials, but it's also very probable that the number of successes may be rather more or rather less than the expected value. We call this range around the expected value variance. When the base probability is closer to 0% or 100%, the variance shrinks, and the number of successes tends to hang closer to the expected value.

This time, let's assume a base accuracy of 85%. Now, Goofus hits on 4 or better (85%), and Gallant hits on 3 or better (90%). How many trials are now necessary to see Gallant reliably outperform Goofus?


This time, things are more stable. For very small numbers of rolls, they're more likely to tie than before. More importantly, the probability of Gallant outperforming Goofus increases more rapidly than before, because successes are less variable at this probability.

Comparing these two graphs against each other, we see the advantages of a higher base rate. For sessions involving fewer than 10 rolls, it is rather less likely that Goofus will outperform Gallant -- they'll tie, if anything. For sessions involving more than 10 rolls, the difference between Goofus and Gallant also becomes more reliable when the base rate is high. Keep in mind that we haven't increased the size of the difference between Goofus and Gallant, which is still just a +1 bonus. Instead, by making a more reliable base rate, we've reduced the influence of luck somewhat. In either case, however, keep in mind that it takes at least 10 rolls before we see Gallant outperform Goofus in just half of sessions. If you're running a competitive strategy game, you'd probably want to see a more pronounced difference than that!



In conclusion


To sum it all up, the issue is that players and developers expect luck to "average out", but they may not realize how many rolls are needed for this to happen. It's one thing to do the math and determine which build has the better expected value; it's another to actually observe that benefit in the typical session. It's my opinion that developers should seek to make these bonuses as reliable and noticeable as possible, but your mileage may vary. This may be more important for certain games & groups than others, after all.

My advice is to center your probabilities of success closer to 100% than to 50%. When the base probability is high, combat is less variable, and it doesn't take as long for luck to average out. Thus, bonuses are more reliably noticed in the course of play, making players observe and enjoy their strategic decisions more.

Less variable checks also have the advantage of allowing players to make more involved plans, since individual actions are less likely to fail. However, when an action does fail, it is more surprising and dramatic than it would otherwise have been when failure is common. Finally, reduced variability allows the party to feel agentic and decisive, rather than being buffeted about by the whims of outrageous fortune.

Another option is to reduce the variance by dividing the result into more fine-grained categories than "success" and "failure" such as "partial success". Some tabletop systems already do this, and even D&D will try to reduce the magnitude of difference between success and failure by letting a powerful ability do half-damage on a miss, again making combat less variable. Upcoming Obsidian Software RPG Pillars of Eternity plans to replace most "misses" with "grazing attacks" that do half-damage instead of no damage, again reducing the role of chance -- a design decision we'll examine in greater detail in next week's post.


Future directions

Next time, we'll go one step further and see how hard it can be for that +1 to-hit bonus to actually translate into an increase in damage output. To do this, I made my work PC simulate forty million attack rolls. It was fun as heck. I hope to see you then!

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Not Just Solid Food, But Real Food

Things have been quiet around here because I've been striving to get published elsewhere!  Today I have an article on Medium Difficulty: Not Just Solid Food, But Real Food. Please read it!

Last week, John Walker over at RPS wrote an editorial asking that games grow up and try taking on more serious themes.

For goodness sake, even Jennifer Aniston movies have more to say about love than all of gaming put together, and what Jennifer Aniston movies have to say about love is, “Durrrrrrrr.” Where is our commentary? Where is our criticism? Where is our subversion? Where is the game that questions governments, challenges society, hell, asks a bloody question? Let alone issues. Good heavens, imagine a game that dealt with issues!

 I found Walker's argument to be fundamentally flawed, suggesting that games are serious or worthwhile if and only if they have serious themes.  This is wrong for several reasons:  First, we already have lots of games that pretend to be about serious things but are utterly boneheaded.  Next, there are plenty of games, some of them thousands of years old, which are taken seriously and respected by all despite their lack of theme - consider Chess or Football.  Finally, since games are meant to be won, serious concepts like love or death will be reduced to things to be won or lost.

Theme doesn't make a smart game.  Smart gameplay makes smart games.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Why do we play games? Pt 2: Self-Determination Theory

This is the second of the multi-part series reviewing psychological theories of why we enjoy playing games.  By understanding why we play games, we can make better games that fit those motives.  In the first part, we looked at flow theory and, because I'd had an extra cup of coffee that day, a case study of Tetris as an exemplar.


Everyone who's ever written a book about video game design is at least passingly familiar with Flow Theory.  However, there is another predominant theory of motivation called Self-Determination Theory (Deci & Ryan, 1978, give or take a few years), which is gaining some popularity in game studies. Self-Determination Theory (SDT) proposes that all people have three basic psychological needs. The first is autonomy, the feeling of being in control of one's own actions, as opposed to being controlled or commanded by someone else. Next is competence, the feeling of having ability, growing in skill, and being able to meet challenges. The last is relatedness, the feeling of caring for and being cared for by others. Self-Determination Theory posits that people will find an activity intrinsically motivating (that is, they will do it of their own volition) insofar as it meets these three psychological needs.

Dr. Andrew Przybylski, motivation psychology researcher
A psychologist named Andrew Przybylski has done some promising early research looking to whether games satisfy these psychological needs.  In one study, Przybylski had participants either play a critically well-reviewed game (Ocarina of Time) or a critical flop (A Bug's Life 64).  Players who played the better videogame not only reported enjoying it more, but they also reported greater feelings of autonomy, competence, and relatedness.  In another study, participants played three different videogames, all equally well-reviewed.  Participants turned out to like these games more or less depending on the extent to which they felt that these games met their needs for autonomy, competence, and relatedness.

We can conclude that, to at least some degree, people are playing games to satisfy their psychological needs.  This research raises three questions.  The first is a psychology question:  do people play games for reasons other than to satisfy needs for autonomy, competence, and relatedness?  The second is a design question:  How can we make games which best satisfy people's psychological needs?  The third is a personality psychology question:  what is it about a particular person that determines whether a certain game meets or fails to meet their needs?

Autonomy
Personally, I find one of these to be much more autonomy-supportive than the other.

The combination of the last two questions reflect my greatest curiosity and greatest criticisms about today's videogames.  To me, games today seem increasingly linear and simple.  As best I can understand, linear or heavily proscriptive games should stifle player's experience of autonomy.  Consider the notorious criticism of Modern Warfare 3's single-player as an "un-game."  I think that the core of this criticism is that the player feels that MW3 fails to be autonomy-supportive.  When the player wants to do something, s/he isn't allowed to: instead, the player gets pushed out of the way so that s/he doesn't end up interfering with the next scripted event. The player is not free to explore or make decisions for himself - instead, you spend a fair portion of the game behind a "follow" prompt so that you move through the cinematic setpieces in the way the developer wants you to.  Remembering the infamous "No Russian" mission from MW2, the player is forced to participate in a massacre, and the game ends abruptly if the player attempts to do anything but follow orders.  At times, one isn't so much a "player" of Modern Warfare's single-player campaign as one is a member of its audience.

Similarly, while I enjoyed Mass Effect 2 for its competent (although simple) cover-shooter combat, vivid alien species, and pleasant fashions by UnderArmour, I never really felt drawn into the general hoopla about the story.  I enjoyed the game well enough, but I never felt like I was really making my own story.  None of the choices I made really amounted to anything.  No matter what happened, I was destined to always go to the same places, shoot the same guys, and at the end, I'd have an opportunity to say something nice or say something mean.  The non-player characters would react more or less appropriately to what I said, but nothing carried forward into the future, except for which of my co-workers I was plotting to doink.  Sometimes I would make an important-sounding decision - do I brainwash an entire species or let them have their liberty? But the consequences were put off until the sequel, where I doubt they were ever addressed meaningfully.  Either way, I didn't feel like I was particularly autonomous or effective within the story - however, it was exactly this illusion of control that seemed to appeal to millions.  
It felt like the only really important decision I made was whom to romance (Miranda, duh).

On the whole, however, people seem to be pretty fond of Modern Warfare's single-player and other heavily-scripted games like it.  Mass Effect, for its part, is one of the most popular new series around.  What is different between me and the die-hard fans?  Maybe I'm just a cranky old coot who has played too many games and knows too well when I'm being railroaded.  If this is the case, we might expect that the more different games a person plays, or the more time they spend thinking about games like some crusty old nerd, the more "game-literate" they are. Highly "game-literate" players might be less convinced by the illusion of autonomy (or in MW single-player's case, the outright denial of autonomy) and receive poorer need satisfaction.  Alternatively, maybe having played certain exemplars which provided exceptional autonomy (maybe something like Fallout or X-COM or Dungeon Crawl) raises one's expectations & turns somebody into a bit of a snob.  This idea isn't too far out either - I remember seeing a similar idea advanced in a recent psychology symposium on nostalgia and experience, in which the lecturer presented data which suggested that people tend to pooh-pooh experiences in comparison to their best previous experience (ie, after having dined on authentic fresh sushi in Tokyo, the stuff at the local supermarket doesn't cut it anymore).  Finally, it's also possible that we enjoy on-rails "experiences" like Modern Warfare for reasons not covered by Self-Determination Theory.  Maybe it's simply exciting or spectacular, literally being a spectacle, and we find that to be fun or motivating.


Competence
I also feel like most big-budget single-player games are not very good about providing opportunities for the player to exercise competence.  When gameplay mechanics are simple, or challenges too easy, there's no thrill in victory.  The player cannot feel triumphant or skilled for winning, because victory was given to him/her on a plate.  Many games also do not seem to have much meat to their mechanics and dynamics.  Rather than being "easy to learn, difficult to master," these games are "easy to learn, easy to master."  By the end of the first stage or two, the player already knows everything necessary to skate to the end of the game.  It's just a matter of time to slog towards the end, usually more to see the conclusion of the story than to test yourself as a player.


This is why I often feel frustrated at the recent emphasis on stories in videogames.  Developers seem to give much more thought and publicity to the paper-thin layer of theme on top of their game, rather than the mechanics and challenge of the game itself.  It seems that every week there's a new video or interview with Ken Levine talking about Bioshock Infinite's characters or political themes or graphical design.  By comparison, we know very little about the mechanics of the gameplay, other than that there will be roller-coaster "Skylines" (a dubious-looking mechanism, given that the player seems to be a sitting duck on these rails).  Blockbuster after blockbuster, it's the same old run-and-gun, just with a new story sprinkled on top.

However, I'm probably in the minority here.  It's possible that stories might be able to provide feelings of competence for some, as players could be experiencing competence vicariously as they role-play a strong character like Bioshock Infinite's Booker DeWitt or Mass Effect's Shepard.  Challenge might not be necessary either.  Many players seem to get feelings of competence just from shooting something or watching those RPG numbers go up, regardless of challenge. Competence is theoretically driven by "setting goals and meeting them," but it's possible that those goals don't have to be particularly challenging to be rewarding.  Maybe it's that challenge makes for bigger variations in feelings of competence, experiencing higher highs and lower lows as we struggle between triumph and frustration.  If this is the case, maybe easy games are blandly comfortable, like a sitcom in its twelfth season, something marginally interesting and relaxing but unlikely to provide a peak experience.  This will appeal to many, but the experienced and daring will want something more challenging.

Yeah, yeah, you're a big man behind that turret, aren't you?

I've done a lot of thinking about what might cause some people to experience feelings of competence while others might not.  The most obvious predictor should be player skill.  When skill is matched perfectly to difficulty, competence is experienced.  When skill is too low for the difficulty, frustration ensues, or when skill is too high relative to the difficulty, the player becomes bored.  It's also possible that feelings of immersion or of actually being the game's hero might cause players to feel more competent - sort of an effect of power fantasy, as we make-believe that we are the powerful hero.  I also think that some people are more or less afraid of losing.  One day, I'd like to do a study to see if there are reliable personality differences in whether people feel like losing is fun or not.  As a fan of competitive games, sports, and roguelikes, I'm very comfortable with losing as often, if not moreso, than I win.  Every defeat teaches us a little something about how we can improve as players.  However, I've seen enough tantrums from players and read enough developer postmortems about frustrated playtesters to know that not everyone is like me.

Relatedness
If there's one thing that games are doing well, it's the capacity for relatedness.  Online games are more robust and popular than ever.  Never has it been easier to play in pairs and in larger groups, both with and against each other.  Developers should keep in mind that it should be easy for players to find and play with their particular friends, however - it's frustrating when you can only play with strangers, or when a game with online multiplayer also fails to allow for local multiplayer. The proliferation of internet discussion forums also seems important - games are more fun when you and your friends can talk about them together!  Relatedness motives might be part of why we seem to have no self-control about buying games.  We need to buy the game a week before it comes out so that we can play it the second it's released for fear that we miss out on discussion or find that the multiplayer community has moved on.
Are people still afraid that Farmville is the new game to beat?  Maybe it's easier to provide feelings of autonomy, competence, and relatedness than we thought.

In summary, Self-Determination theory suggests that people play games to satisfy their psychological needs for autonomy, competence, and relatedness, and that players will enjoy a particular game to the extent that it provides for those needs.  However, people are probably very different from each other in whether a game will ultimately suit their needs.


There are still many things about games which we enjoy that may not necessarily relate to the satisfaction of Self-Determination Theory needs.  For example, many players seem to enjoy games for their stories, but I'm not so sure how that might provide feelings of need satisfaction.  There also are plenty of wildly popular "no-challenge" games like Farmville, which wouldn't seem to provide feelings of competence or relatedness (spamming your friends with requests for energy isn't exactly quality time together).  I have at least one more theory to write about in a future article which may address some of those things. In the meantime, I have to keep thinking about Przybylski's study and wonder:  why does the same game meet some players' needs and fail to meet other players' needs?

Next time, we'll talk about what developers can do to make games which provide for Self-Determination Theory needs.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Flow Theory case study: Tetris

In the previous article I was wondering about whether losing periodically is necessary for the experience of flow, or if ever losing means immediately losing your flow.  A friend mentioned Tetris to me, which will make for a great case study.

A lot of the classic video games are very good at providing flow because of their linearly increasing difficulty and the inevitability of losing.  Consider Tetris. Tetris has all the basics: good controls, simple and concise rules, and constant feedback in the form of your score.  You can tell when you're doing well, because the lines disappear and your score increases.  You can tell when you're doing very well because the screen also flashes when you line up a Tetris.

 "[The] only video game I can think of that left cultural marks for 
decades & will last 100 [years] is Tetris" - Raph Koster

The key to Tetris (and many classics like it, such as Missile Command and Breakout) is that the difficulty steadily increases over time.  The player may start the difficulty at any level.  Then, after every regular interval (10 lines) the game becomes more difficult as the pieces begin to fall faster.  The difficulty, then, will inevitably reach optimal challenge.  Sooner or later, the player will be optimally challenged, just barely slotting the pieces where they're needed, or making small mistakes and having to be clever and quick to correct them.  After a while longer, the pieces will fall too quickly, the player will become too challenged, and soon after, the game will end.

Tetris is very good at spending the player's time optimally challenged. The player doesn't have to spend any time bored, because he/she can set the starting difficulty at any level.  The particularly brilliant part is that the player spends very little time frustrated, because the game ends shortly after the game becomes too difficult.  When the difficulty has gone too high, the player loses and starts a fresh game, beginning again at a lower difficulty.  The player never has to play through extended periods which are too easy or try to drag him/herself through an exceedingly difficult part of the game.

Graph of difficulty (the speed at which blocks fall) over time within a single game of Tetris.  Sometime between the start and end of the game, Tetris will inevitably reach optimum challenge.  The player can reduce the time spent in "Ho-hum" territory by starting at a higher difficulty.


You can almost think of Tetris as searching for the player's skill level. The player punches in the best guess, since starting at a higher level means earning more points before losing.  Tetris then ratchets up the difficulty until the player can no longer play, assuming that someplace in between it has to run into the perfect challenge.  I have to wonder - if we could stop Tetris from growing more difficult when it hit that perfect balance, would we be happy to continue playing for half an hour at a time?  I suspect that the game around the experience of flow is still important - chasing after that high score means you can also track your skill as a player.

Games which are intended to be beaten or finished don't have the luxury of this particular search strategy.  If a game like Halo or Mass Effect 2 steadily ratcheted up the difficulty until the player died, the player would probably become pretty annoyed at the inevitability of having to die and lose progress before the game made it easier again.  Developers of these games have to try to make the whole game optimally challenging, meeting the player's skill and then growing in difficulty as the player grows in skill.  It's almost an impossible task, which is why probably a better design decision for these games is finely-grained difficulty settings.

 The best difficulty system in a long, long time.

I'm not talking about "easy, normal, hard", where the difference between settings is enemies having +/- 50% health and the player taking +/- 50% damage - that's not nearly granular enough.  Instead, I'm thinking of something like Bastion's "idols" system, where the player can change particular parameters about enemies, making them a little tougher for a little extra reward (ie enemies move faster; enemies recover health over time; enemies drop a grenade when they die; enemies drop fewer power-ups).

Helping your players to optimal challenge is easy when they're destined to lose - just keep cranking it up and they're bound to hit it eventually!  Keeping them there for hours of a game that takes away their progress when they die, though, that's the really tricky part.

Friday, March 9, 2012

Why do we play games? A psych review, part 1

This is going to be the first of a multiple-part series in which I write about some of the research questions I have about video games and psychology, talking about video games from the perspective of major psychological theories.

What motivates people to play video games? Clearly, people enjoy playing videogames - some people play for forty hours or more a week, making video games almost a second job. Unlike a job, however, people are not paid to play videogames, so we generally understand video game play to be intrinsically motivated - that is, motivated by the enjoyment of doing the activity, rather than extrinsically motivated, engaged in for the sake of earning rewards like money or social prestige.

It seems only natural that the more we're motivated to play a game, the more we enjoy it.  Motivation to play a game isn't the same for everyone, either.  For any one game, some people might love it and some people might not, suggesting that motivation comes from an interaction of the game's features and the player's personality.  So, given that people tend to have different opinions of the same game, we should expect that people are looking for different things when they play games.  To understand what and why we enjoy in video games, we could look to psychology.  Additionally, there might be things about video games that we find motivating that existing theories do not yet account for.


One of the predominant and most frequently-cited theories of enjoyment is Csikszentmihalyi's Flow Theory (1991). Csikszentmihalyi (pronounced cheek-sent-me-high-ee) identifies the "flow state" as being an enjoyable psychological state experienced when a highly skilled person engages in a highly challenging activity, being completely absorbed by that activity.  Flow is described as coming from a number of factors:


1) balance between the ability of the person and the challenge of the task (often called "optimal challenge")
2) concentration and focus on the activity
3) clear and direct feedback of success or failure
4) clear goals for the activity
5) control over the activity
6) the activity is intrinsically motivated
7) loss of self-conciousness or self-awareness
8) distorted sense of time (ie an action seems to take place in slow motion, or hours pass in a moment)

When I think Csikszentmihalyi, I think "challenge", 
mostly because it's so hard to spell his name right.

It should be noted that even when we don't necessarily attain complete flow, the result is still pleasant, and certainly better than being bored.  Flow isn't necessarily an all or nothing proposition.

From this we can see some very basic design principles: the player should have effective and precise controls, the player should be able to tell what the heck is going on, the player should be neither bored by too little challenge nor frustrated by excessive challenge.  A good game should be attention-grabbing and have a clear goal - although a player could also take a non-game software like Minecraft or SimCity and make his/her own goals.

There still seems to be a lot that people like about video games that can't be explained by Flow Theory alone.  For example, there wouldn't seem to be anything about a story that provides flow, but people still enjoy those, in movies, books, and in video games.  What, then, motivates people to read or participate in stories?  Flow Theory can't seem to account for a good book.

Also, there seem to be some gamers that have no patience at all for a challenge.  I wonder about these people - they set their video games to the easiest difficulty & just plow through them to their inevitable victory.  My guess is that everybody really does want a challenge, but maybe some people just need very tiny challenges.  Some people might be more or less resilient in the face of failure, too - for some players, failing twice might be enough to break the controller in half.  It's also possible that these players might have more fun if they allowed themselves to lose once in a while, but they're too high-strung or impatient to savor a challenge or enjoy losing.

 Can you have fun without a challenge? Maybe you'd just have more fun with one?  
I also don't know how well we understand the other sections, like "relaxation" or "apathy".

Going back to the example of Minecraft, no project seems more "challenging" than any other (with the exception of intricate redstone programming).  Projects are all performed in the same way, digging and placing blocks, so it's mostly a question of the time commitment of working on a big project.  However, people seem to have a good time and the hours still rip by, suggesting that maybe they're sort of in flow, even though there's no optimal challenge involved.

Also, I'd expect that being optimally challenged would mean that the player periodically loses or suffers setbacks.  For example, if I have an opponent whom I beat every single time, we can probably assume that I'm not stretching myself or really having a challenge.  Why, then, are developers so afraid of challenging the player?  Why are players afraid of losing?  Maybe it's the linearity of progress - losing the game means a loss of progress, meaning that you have to repeat the last five or ten minutes (or more), which might preclude the player's getting back into the flow.  Flow theory hypothesizes that people get frustrated when they're too challenged and bored when they're not frustrated enough.  How long does it take for somebody to get frustrated and post on an internet message board that they've had it with the "bullshit" difficulty?  Can losing be as fun as winning?

Next week we'll talk about another psychological theory.  In the meantime, I'd love to hear from any readers:  does a good challenge mean that you have to lose sometimes?  Why are some people happy to lose and others have no patience for it?  And what about popular but non-challenging activities like Minecraft - maybe these involve some pleasant psychological state other than flow, like relaxation?


Sunday, February 26, 2012

A Few Clarifications

First off, I wanted to thank Rock Paper Shotgun's John Walker for coming by to read and comment on my article. John is already a well-established industry insider and probably has plenty of things to do other than read my blog. I was disappointed by John's comments, however, which I felt mischaracterized my argument. I had thought that if anyone could recognize a game as disenfranchising the player and disrespecting player agency, it would be the man who criticized MW3 single-player as an "un-game."

As we say in the sciences, if your reviewers haven't understood your argument, it's not because they're dumb - it's because you didn't write it clearly enough. With that in mind, I'd hoped to clarify a few things.

While I did take a few pot-shots at the quality of the Bioware staff's writing, I want to make my stance on the "Hepler Button" clear. Access to a "Hepler Button" absolutely should be available and absolutely should not be desired.

I actually rather like Hepler's statement. Her public flogging has been brutally unfair - is it one writer's fault that Dragon Age 2 is a terrible game? Wouldn't it make more sense to find and blame the lead developer, or somebody responsible for the actual game design? (If there were ever a sign of the backwards priorities of DA2, it's that the audience knows much more about DA2's writers than we do its game developers!)

In any case, in Jennifer's own naive way, she has discovered for herself the Frankenstein problem. AAA games, in pursuit of innovation, take small segments of non-innovative gameplay and intersperse them with increasingly complex narrative segments over which the player has minimal control. These chunks of only-technically-interactive movie often act as rewards for making it through the gameplay, in case the gameplay is not interesting and rewarding in itself. (And yes, the player has minimal control over the stories of Mass Effect and Dragon Age. Consult the chart below.)


If you think this is changing anything that happens in ME3,
you're in for a rude surprise.


Jennifer's suggestion is a perfectly rational solution to the Frankenstein problem. Combat in many AAA titles, especially Dragon Age 2, is mostly filler - it's fun for a while, but it does not test the player's skills, and it does not teach the player anything. It's there to kill time so that the back of the box can advertise "twenty hours of gameplay!"

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack. Who wouldn't want to skip this?

There are parts where you kill people, and parts where you talk to people, and the two never interact with each other. Each system is safely sealed away from the other one. One can very easily be skipped without harming the other system. If you only like one part (or worse, one part is used mercilessly as padding to drag the game out), why not skip forward? In this regard, I agree with Hepler and Walker. Players should have that ability. I think PC gamers in particular can appreciate the freedom allowed by console commands. However, in a well-designed game, the idea would never occur to the player. If the player wants to skip your dialogue to get back to the game, the story is boring. If the player wishes to skip the gameplay to get to the story, this is almost twice as bad. First, you have created a game that is not interesting to play in its own right, and second, you have used it as an obstacle to keep the player from the story. So why is this an increasingly common hallmark of AAA game development (GTA4, DA2)?

I love games. I love interactive fiction. But in either, player interaction is the most important thing. Systems that
disregard player inputs, whether inside combat or out, as Bioware's recent titles do, are not using the medium to its full potential.

I was also surprised by the indignant declaration that nobody gets to define games. This is a position that would seem to disrespect decades of philosophy and game study, including Huizinga (1938),
Wittgenstein (1953), Callois (1961), Hunicke (2004), and Juul (2004). I'm well aware that software, and even interactive software, can take a dazzling variety of diverse forms. However, just because software is interactive, or superficially resembles a game, does not mean that it is a game.

This is not a value judgement. There is room in this world (and in the market) for excellent games, excellent toys, excellent interactive fictions, and excellent movies. There's also room for excellent fringe cases, if done right. However, design and criticism
requires that each be considered with respect to the strengths of that medium.

There's a Simpsons screencap for every occasion.

Games are great. Interactive fiction is also great. Stapling the two together carelessly with no consideration of what makes a good game, or a good fiction, is poor design. These two incompatible donors of Frankenstein flesh don't make up for each others' weaknesses. Please, make good games, or good fictions, but don't pretend that an okay game interrupted by an okay visual novel is the pinnacle of gameplay.