Architecture is the thoughtful making of space.
THIS QUOTE FROM FAMOUS architect Louis Kahn, similar to our own for level design, brings us to our next discussion on gamespaces. In Chapter 2, we explored some of the practical tools and methods with which we will design game levels, from planning on paper to constructing level geometry in game engines. Now we will discuss basic spatial arrangements that will enable us to create better gameplay experiences within our game levels.
First, you will learn about some simple spatial principles from architectural design: figure-ground, form-void, and others. Next, we will explore historic gamespaces such as the maze and labyrinth, learning how these ancient space types influence modern game structures. From these core explorations, we will explore other popular spatial types found in modern games and discover how they are used to enforce different gameplay mechanics. Lastly, we will consider player point of view and discover what advantages and disadvantages are found in first, third, and other camera views.
What you will learn in this chapter:
Architectural spatial arrangements
Historic gamespace structures
Spatial size types
Molecule level spaces
Form follows gameplay with proximity diagrams
Hub spaces
Sandbox gamespaces
Considerations of camera
Enemies as alternative architecture
ARCHITECTURAL SPATIAL ARRANGEMENTS
As with Chapter 2, we will begin with lessons from architecture. Whereas we previously focused on tools and techniques that were useful in game engine environments, this time we will discuss spatial arrangements that can be utilized in games.
Games and architecture differ in the fact that real-world architecture must conform to real-world rules. For example, real-world buildings must have both an interior and an exterior—with the shape of one influencing the other. Real-world architecture must also take into consideration weather, geology, zoning regulations, and structural realities. These are not things that gamespaces must deal with. To one extreme, this can mean experimental structures such as Atelier Ten Architects and GMO Tea Cup Communication, Inc.’s Museum of the Globe,1 a large elliptical structure formed from cubes floating in space (Figure 3.1) or Hidenori Watanave’s explorable database sculpture on the life of Brazilian architect Oscar Niemeyer2—both former structures within the virtual world Second Life.3 For more day-to-day level design, however, this means gamespaces that are free from interior/exterior requirements. This results in more freeform spatial layouts based on player movement patterns, narrative events, or game mechanics (Figure 3.2). Indeed, interior and exterior are little more than descriptions based on the art used to decorate the gamespace.
With these differences in mind, spatial designers for games can take advantage of architectural lessons within the freedom of game design environments. Some of these lessons even have conceptual links to how levels are constructed in many modern game engines.
The first architectural spatial arrangement we will explore is that of figure-ground. Figure-ground is derived from artistic notions of the positive and negative space of a composition, where positive space describes the area inhabited by the subject of a piece and negative space describes space outside of or in between subjects (Figure 3.3).
FIGURE 3.1 A sketch of Atelier Ten Architects and GMO Tea Cup Communication, Inc.'s Museum of the Globe. Since the building is built within a virtual world, it does not require any structure to hold up the hundreds of cubes making up its main body. The designers designed the building's form in Microsoft Excel and then generated the geometry in an automatic modeling program.
FIGURE 3.2 Parti diagram sketches of level plans. Game levels can take on unusual formal characteristics because they do not have to conform to a corresponding interior or exterior as real buildings do.
Figure-ground theory in architecture comes from the arrangement of positive space figures, often poche’d building masses, within a negative space ground. When viewed in plan, the designer can see how the placement of building figures begins to form spaces out of the ground. Indeed, the formation of such spaces in figure-ground drawings is as important as the placement of the figures themselves (Figure 3.4). According to architectural designer Matthew Frederick, spaces formed by arranged figures become positive space in their own right, since they now have a form just as the figures do.4 From an urban design standpoint, these framed spaces are often squares, courtyards, parks, nodes, and other meeting areas where people can “dwell,” while remaining negative spaces are for people to move through.5
FIGURE 3.3 This illustration, known as Rubin's vase, shows the concept of positive and negative space and how they can be reversed. Based on whether the viewer is interpreting the black or white portions of the image as the negative space, this is either an illustration of two faces looking at one another or of a vase.
FIGURE 3.4 When mapping out spaces with figure-ground drawing, it is important to observe how the positive space figures create spaces out of the negative space ground. These spaces, having forms of their own, are considered positive space.
Frederick also points out that when utilizing figure-ground, both figural elements and spaces can be implied,6 either by demarcating a space with structural elements or by creating negative spaces that resemble the form of nearby figures (Figure 3.5). This echoes theoretical neuroscientist Gerd Sommerhoff, who, as quoted by architect Grant Hildebrand, said:
The brain expects future event-and-image sets to be event-andimage sets previously experienced. When repetition of previous experience seems likely, the brain readies itself to reexperience the set. If expectances are conirmed, the model is reinforced, with a resultant sensation of pleasure.7
In this way, we can see how figure-ground becomes a powerful tool for level designers to create additive and subtractive spaces within many game engines. Many engines allow for the creation of additive figure elements to be arranged within negative 2D or 3D space. Gamespaces are often based on mechanics of movement through negative space, using positive elements as ledges or supports for a player’s journey. Under other mechanics, forming spaces in-between solid forms allows for the creation of rooms, corridors, and other spaces that players can run, chase, and hide in. Additionally, designers can communicate with players via implied boundaries or highlighted spaces that use figure-ground articulations like those described by Sommerhoff (Figure 3.6).
FIGURE 3.5 These illustrations show how figure-ground arrangements can be used to imply spaces or elements.
FIGURE 3.6 These illustrations show ways that figure-ground relationships can be utilized in many gamespaces, implying spatial relationships can be an effective way of relaying spatial messages to players.
Form-void (also called solid-void) is in many ways a three-dimensional evolution of figure-ground. It is the natural application of figure-ground in games where the gamespace will be viewed from a non-top-down perspective (Figure 3.7). In form-void theory, spaces that are carved out of solid forms are implied to have a form of their own.
Just as figure-ground is spatial arrangement by marking off spaces with massive elements, form-void is spatial arrangement by adding masses or subtracting spaces from them. This further resembles the operation of many of the game engines described in Chapter 2, “Tools and Techniques for Level Design,” in how these engines allow for the placement of geometric forms or for their carving out of an endless mass. Similarly, 3D art programs allow for intersections between forms to be realized through either careful modeling or Boolean operations, where mathematical equations are used to combine 3D models in additive or subtractive ways. Buildings such as Peter Zumthor’s Therme Vals or Mario Botta’s Casa Bianchi, both in Switzerland, show how form-void relationships can be used to carve out spaces for balconies, doorways, windows, private rooms, and other functions (Figure 3.8). In games, such additions and subtractions can be used for hidden alcoves, secret passages, sniping spots, or even highlighted level goals.
FIGURE 3.7 Some examples of form-void relationships between forms.
As we have already seen, level design is an art of contrasts. It is also an art of sight lines, pathways, dramatic lead-ups, and ambiguity about the nature of where you are going. All of these elements contribute to the experience of an arrival, the way in which you come into a space for the irst time.
Much of how we will communicate with the player is through arrivals in space. It is also in how that space ushers the player toward his or her next destination or provides the means for the player to choose his or her own path. Much of how you experience a space when you arrive in it comes from the spatial conditions of the spaces that preceded it: if you are arriving in a big space, spaces leading up to it should be enclosed so the new space seems even bigger, light spaces should be preceded by dark, etc. In their book Chambers for a Memory Palace, architects Donlyn Lyndon and Charles W. Moore highlight John Portman & Associates’ Hyatt Regency Atlanta hotel as featuring such arrival in its atrium space. Dubbed the “Jesus Christ spot” by critics, it was not uncommon soon after the hotel was built for businessmen to arrive in the twenty-two-story atrium from the much lower-ceilinged spaces preceding it and mutter “Jee-sus Christ!” as they looked upward.8 Similar spatial experiences are common in exploration-based games such as those in The Legend of Zelda or Metroid series for leading up to important enemy encounters, item acquisitions, or story events (Figure 3.9).
FIGURE 3.8 Sketches from Therme Vals by Peter Zumthor and Casa Bianchi by Mario Botta show how forms and voids can be used to deine space.
Another important element of how players arrive at spaces is their point of view from the arrival point. As we will see later in the chapter, camera angles in games have a great deal of influence with how a player understands space. However, dramatic reveals and arrivals are possible regardless of the chosen point of view. In classical architecture, the procession-like approach to the Parthenon in Athens, Greece, shows how an occupant’s point of view is steered toward dramatic reveals. Visitors climbing up the steps of the Acropolis would first see the Parthenon from below. Then, passing through the Propylaea, the portico-like entrance building of the Acropolis, they would be greeted by a three-quarters view of the Parthenon from its northwestern corner rather than a more two-dimensional view from straight on. The path then forced visitors to walk around the building before they would wind back to the entrance of the Parthenon itself. From this forced path, visitors got a more theatric approach to the Parthenon than if they had walked straight up to its entrance (Figure 3.10).
FIGURE 3.9 Many games use contrasting spatial conditions to highlight the approaches to gameplay-important spaces such as boss rooms or goals. This diagram of the Temple of Time from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, where the player receives a narrative-important sword, shows how contrasted spaces and a Byzantine-esque basilica plan emphasize the importance of the sword chamber.
FIGURE 3.10 Diagram of the entry procession to the Parthenon. Visitors did not approach from the entryway side, but from a corner. They then had to walk around the building. Since all elevations of the building were equally intricate, it could be enjoyed from all sides as visitors walked around to the entrance.
A last architectural spatial lesson is less of an arrangement and more of another goal for designing your own spaces. This lesson is known as genius loci, also known as spirit of place. This term comes from a Roman belief that spirits would protect towns or other populated areas, acting as the town’s genius. This term was adopted by late-twentieth-century architects to describe the identifying qualities or emotional experience of a place. Some call designing to the concept of genius loci placemaking, that is, creating memorable or unique experiences in a designed space.
In Chapter 2, we discussed the Nintendo Power method of level design, where the designer creates a macro-scaled parti or plan of his or her level, and then distributes highlighted moments of gameplay as though developing a map for a game magazine. Each of these highlighted moments of gameplay—be they enemy encounters, movement puzzles, or helpful stopping points—has potential for its own genius loci. Are these places for rest or for battle? Should the player feel relaxed, tense, or meditative in these gamespaces? The answers to these questions depend highly on the game you are building, but can help you determine the kind of feel you want for your levels.
Beyond individual gameplay encounters, level designers can implant genius loci within the entirety of their gamespaces and use it as a tool for moving players from one point to another. Genius loci can be built through manipulations in lighting, shadows, spatial organization, and the size of spaces, which will all be discussed in detail later in the book. If you are building a level for a horror game, for example, the genius loci you build should be one of dread, created through careful selection of environmental art, lighting, sound effects, and other assets. Spaces in a game with little or no genius loci can be circulation spaces, that is, spaces for the player to move through to get to the next destination. Depending on the gameplay you are creating, circulation spaces may be a chance to rest between intensive encounters or tools for building suspense before a player gets to the next memorable gameplay moment.
Now that we have discussed a few more general spatial concepts, we can move on to exploring some historical gamespace archetypes. These will allow us to take the tools and techniques we have learned thus far and employ them in classical gameplay structures.
Many games and puzzles have been inspired by spaces described in classical literature or built in to historic sites. Beyond defining a specific spatial condition of a game environment, they serve as important models for how game worlds can be structured: linearly, branching, or interconnected.
The first of these spaces is the classical labyrinth. According to Greek legends, the Labyrinth was built by the architect Daedelus to hold the half-man half-bull Minotaur for King Minos of Crete. Representations of labyrinths in art dating as far back as the Roman Empire depict labyrinths as winding passages that loop around themselves, eventually reaching an endpoint (Figure 3.11). While labyrinths are often confused with branching mazes, artists and writers such as Hermann Kern have made the distinction that classic labyrinths are unicursal—consisting of a single winding path.9 Labyrinths are also notable for their use as a floor pattern in many medieval churches, such as Chartres Cathedral, where walking the path of the labyrinth was a meditative experience.
Labyrinths are an important model for understanding gamespaces that are navigated in a linear fashion. As Salen and Zimmerman point out, games are often the least productive way to accomplish a task.10 Labyrinths also demonstrate that even in linear gamespaces, both literal and gameplay twists, turns, and challenges can add interest to an otherwise straightforward pathway. Beyond singular levels, many games are themselves labyrinthian, requiring players to follow one set path of events. Such a structure is useful for games where an embedded narrative, theme, or argument is being communicated to the player.
FIGURE 3.11 An illustration of a classical labyrinth.
Often confused with unicursal labyrinths, mazes are branching spatial puzzles where occupants and players must find their way through an elaborate structure of walls and pathways with multiple dead ends to find an exit point (Figure 3.12). Due to their branching nature, mazes are said to be multicursal, having more than one defined path. Despite the name, the legend of the Minotaur and the Cretan Labyrinth actually describes a maze—thus the current popular interchangeability between the terms maze and labyrinth. Upon finishing the structure, Daedelus is said to have nearly gotten lost among its many branching paths. Thus the hero Theseus utilized a ball of thread to remind himself of the way out during his mission to kill the Minotaur.
From the Renaissance through the nineteenth century, architects also developed hedge mazes, multicursal pathways through tall bushes in the gardens of large estates. Originally unicursal labyrinths, these structures evolved into branching paths that often contained several points of interest. Of note is the Labyrinth of Versailles, within which explorers could find thirty-nine sculptures depicting Aesop’s Fables (Figure 3.13). The PC indie title Slender: The Eight Pages11 uses a similar layout, where players must navigate a maze of pitch-black forest pathways to find notebook pages before they are captured by a malicious entity (Figure 3.14).
FIGURE 3.12 An illustration of a maze.
Mazes, and even recreations of European-style hedge mazes and their American derivative, corn mazes, are a very common spatial type in games. Their branching nature with potential dead ends implies a rich risk-reward structure, where the game asks you to weigh different uncertain options with the hope of choosing an advantageous answer. In terms of game mechanics, maze levels of games are often paired with features such as powerful enemies or time limits to create dramatic gameplay situations (Figure 3.15).
FIGURE 3.12 An illustration of a maze.
FIGURE 3.13 A plan of the Labyrinth of Versailles showing the many branching paths.
FIGURE 3.14 A map of the forest in Slender: The Eight Pages. Notice that it has a similar layout and node-based structure for places where players may find the titular pages.
FIGURE 3.15 Two examples of in-game maze levels from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time and Super Mario Bros 3 show how designers use mazes to complement dramatic elements such as powerful enemies (Zelda) or a time limit (Mario).
The dead ends in mazes do not always have to be negative. Many games with explorable dungeons, such as Final Fantasy or Zelda titles, use branching paths and dead ends as incentives for exploration. Often these explorable branches yield treasure or other rewards. Games with even simpler worlds can also utilize small branching paths, such as in the previously mentioned mobile game SWARM!. Within levels of this game, small diversionary paths off of a level’s typical route can lead to caches of coins and other rewards (Figure 3.16).
While maze and labyrinth are architectural terms, rhizome is a term from botany. Rhizomes are networks of roots formed by underground stems of plants. This term was borrowed by philosophers Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari for their two-volume work Capitalism and Schizophrenia. As a philosophical concept, rhizomes describe a lateral representative structure of information and data without distinctive entry and exit points. At the beginning of A Thousand Plateaus, Deleuze and Guattari outline the guidelines of a rhizome, the most important of which, for our purposes, is that every point in them is connected to every other point at the same time12(Figure 3.17). In this regard, the term rhizome has been used to describe the Internet,13 as users can access information on any website from any other website by typing in its Uniform Resource Locator (URL).
Spatially, the term rhizome can apply to any place that can be instantly traveled to from any other place. In the real world, air travel allows this to an extent. In games, a popular mechanic in large adventure games is to give players access to an instant transportation function that allows distances to be traveled quickly. In Pokémon, for example, players eventually gain an ability that allows bird Pokémon to transport them to places they have already visited. This ability also exists in many games in The Legend of Zelda, Final Fantasy, and Elder Scrolls series to help players manage travel over large in-game landscapes.
FIGURE 3.16 A plan sketch of level 1-3 of SWARM! showing small passageways off of the main level path. While not traditionally maze-like, these branching paths demonstrate in a small game the same methods for creating player curiosity found in much more complex titles.
FIGURE 3.17 A diagram of a rhizomatic structure. Mathematically, these are referred to as complete graphs, where all vertices on a geometric object connect to all other vertices. These kinds of structures are often used in religious iconography, such as the Christian shield of the trinity59 (also pictured).
ActiveWorlds,14 Second Life, and other large virtual worlds have similar functions, but make them part of the user’s standard moveset by allowing him or her to type in coordinates of where he or she would like to go. In ActiveWorlds, this has turned locations along the x and y axes of the world map, such as points (45, 0) or (0, 45), as well as points along the center diagonal between the two, such as (45, 45), into major commerce and development thoroughfares15 since they could be traveled to and remembered easily. Likewise, in Second Life, the interior of the Museum of the Globe can only be accessed through Second Life’s coordinate system—further making it a piece of architecture that can only exist within a virtual world. The ability of game developers to script such options into games makes rhizomes a unique option for creating world logic and geometry within digital games.
Now that we understand spatial types that can describe the structures of both single levels and entire game worlds, we can discuss how even more micro-scaled portions of levels can engage users emotionally. For this next section, we look particularly at the sizes of gamespaces and discover how they affect a player’s relationship with a space.
While size distinctions for gamespaces seem like rather banal information, they actually create some very interesting emotional scenarios in game levels. Here we discuss three size types that level designers can use to create their levels. These types can be used in a variety of gameplay scenarios, such as contextual tutorials and creating drama through survival scenarios.
The first size type we will discuss is narrow space, a spatial condition where the occupant feels confined and unable to move.16 When considering the measurement techniques highlighted in Chapter 2, narrow gamespace is that which is not much larger than a player character’s own size metrics—often with space for only two of such a character to stand in a passageway (Figure 3.18). Narrow space is a significant spatial type in video games that can be used for a variety of dramatic or skill-based gameplay scenarios.
Narrow spaces create tension by giving space scarcity, limited amounts such that space itself becomes a valuable resource. Under this model, conflict can rise from players’ drive to keep space for themselves from other players or non-player characters (NPCs). In player vs. player conflicts, narrow space can be used to create bottlenecks for creating ambushes and traps or to provide tense “threading the needle” moments in racing games.
FIGURE 3.18 Plan diagrams of narrow space. These examples show how narrow spaces can be used to create conflict scenarios among players and NPCs.
FIGURE 3.19 Diagram of a typical hallway space in Resident Evil’s Spencer Mansion. The narrow hallways create a claustrophobic environment. This causes enemy encounters to be a significant threat, as the player is less able to move around them.
The narrowing of space close to the limits of player metrics creates a sense that the player cannot perform many of the actions he or she could under other conditions. This is significant for the other function of narrow spaces—evoking vulnerability by limiting player movement options. This is a common design feature of many horror games such as Resident Evil, where the hallways of the Spencer Mansion combined with the game’s non-intuitive “tank controls” create a heightened sense of claustrophobia (Figure 3.19).
Stealth games also use narrow space in interesting ways. Games in the Metal Gear Solid series offer a plethora of spaces to hide in, but while some comfortably allow hero Solid Snake to scout out his next hiding spot, others, such as lockers, vents, or crawl spaces, limit both Snake’s mobility and the player’s ability to see what is around him (Figure 3.20). This feature of many stealth games reinforces the idea that in stealth games, as in horror games, player characters are often weaker than their opponents.
FIGURE 3.20 Narrow spaces in Metal Gear Solid games offer concealment from enemies, but at the cost of both mobility and visibility.
The next size type is known as intimate space. Intimate spaces are neither confining nor overly large17 and are, in fact, what one might call metric appropriate, at a size that comfortably supports the size and movement metrics of player characters (Figure 3.21). Within intimate spaces, interactive surfaces or features are within reach of a player character’s inherent abilities. In some games, the amount of space described in this way may change if the abilities of player characters can expand through additions such as high-jump capabilities or others.
A great deal of gamespaces could be described as intimate space. In corridor shooters and in multiplayer arenas where players are on even ground with no significant vantage points above or below, the gamespace can be considered multilateral intimate space (Figure 3.22). In multiplayer situations, intimate spaces create a spatially even playing field shared by multiple actors. Player skill notwithstanding, no player has an advantage over any other. Racing game tracks with wide enough road space for multiple cars allow players to compete against one another for race position rather than track space. In these situations, contrasting narrow and intimate spaces creates interesting gameplay situations and allows players to build strategies of how to proceed.
FIGURE 3.21 Intimate spaces are ones where everything within the space is accessible by the player character with its inherent abilities.
FIGURE 3.22 This sectional diagram shows multiplayer shooter characters battling within an intimate space arena. Architectural features like ramps, slight elevation changes, and occasional barriers do not interrupt the spatially even playing field of the level.
Intimate spaces in single-player games can have several beneficial effects. Due to their comfortable accessibility, they are often “friendly” locations within the plot of a game. Princess Peach’s Castle from Super Mario 64 is an intimate space because the player can access many of the platforms inside without putting Mario at any significant risk. There are no pits or enemies to endanger the character and end the game. This space and others like it also act as a tutorial space for the game, allowing players to experiment with Mario’s abilities at their own pace.
FIGURE 3.23 Intimate spaces in Batman: Arkham Asylum involve the use of vantage points and sight lines that are accessible through the abilities of the player character, Batman. These abilities allow for greater use of the level space by players than enemies, so intimate space in this case provides spatial advantages for this single-player experience.
One game series that utilizes intimate space in interesting ways is the Batman: Arkham series. For the first game in the series, Batman: Arkham Asylum, developer Rocksteady coined the term predator gameplay to describe the game’s stealth hunting. As a contrast to typical stealth games where the protagonist is somehow weaker than the enemies, the developer argued, Batman would be stronger and have better command of his surroundings, similar to his capabilities in the Batman comic books.18 To complement Batman’s abilities of gliding, grappling, and silently taking down foes, the level designers created level spaces that enabled these actions, with high vantage points and sight lines that allowed the player to capitalize on Batman’s unique abilities (Figure 3.23). Unlike multiplayer games, where the focus of intimate space is to create comfortable spaces for many players, single-player games can utilize intimate spaces to give players an advantage over foes.
At times, games put players in the positions that Batman’s foes in Arkham Asylum find themselves in: wandering through a large open space and open to attack. This third spatial size type is known as prospect space (Figure 3.24).19 Hildebrand describes prospect space as that in which humans had to historically find food, water, and other necessities—outside of the safety of caves and open to predators and the elements.
Prospects in gamespaces take many forms. Once again looking to the multiplayer map, prospects are found in any area where one player may take a spatial advantage over another, such as by having a vantage point from above. In single-player games, prospects are used as boss rooms: large open spaces where the player cannot use his or her abilities to take a spatial advantage but must instead fight a single powerful foe. Such spaces are used regularly in the Mega Man game series, where players must finish each level by battling a powerful Robot Master (Figure 3.25).
FIGURE 3.24 This illustration shows a basic idea of how prospect space operates in terms of a player’s openness to enemy attack.
FIGURE 3.25 Boss rooms in the Mega Man series are often large and open so players must directly deal with the attacks of foes.
Prospect spaces are similar to narrow spaces in their potential for creating fear in the player. They do so through opposite means, however. If narrow spaces create a sense of claustrophobia, prospects create a sense of agoraphobia, an anxiety disorder that includes a fear of wide-open spaces. While there may be a general sense of vulnerability in prospect spaces of a multiplayer deathmatch map, this feeling can be heightened through the use of fog, music, shadows, and other atmospheric effects related to the forming of your gamespace’s genius loci. Slender: The Eight Pages’s entire environment is a prospect draped in pitch-black darkness, heightening the sense that the malevolent Slender Man has mastery of the gamespace and is waiting just beyond the player’s field of vision. His artificial intelligence (AI) is scripted in such a way that he will randomly appear to the player at varying distances and move closer when the player is looking away (Figure 3.26). As such, Slender Man’s movements across the prospect space give the impression that he is supernatural and can move great distances quickly. To put this in terms of movement metrics: the space is built to enhance Slender Man’s metrics while it makes the player’s own movement metrics seem agonizingly slow.
Prospect spaces and the other spatial size types are much more complex beyond the qualities listed here. In later chapters, we discuss how they are mixed and matched with other types of spaces to create dramatic spatial articulations. Next, however, we explore a spatial type that connects the singular spatial atoms that we have thus far discussed.
FIGURE 3.26 In Slender: The Eight Pages, the antagonist spawns randomly around the player, demonstrated in this plan diagram, giving the impression that he has complete control over the pitch-black prospect space (locations 1, 2, and 3 on the diagram). If the player turns away, the antagonist quickly pursues and further gives the impression of great speed (location 4).
Now that we have discussed several isolated gamespace types, we need to understand how to link these spaces together in interesting and meaningful ways. Designers Luke McMillan and Nassib Azar, who is himself a former architect, in their Gamasutra article “The Metrics of Space: Molecule Design,”20 highlight a methodology for spatial organization based on the arrangement of gamespaces, how players reach one from another, and how designers can allow or disallow access between them for interesting play scenarios. Based on interpretations of mathematical graphing theory, which we delved into briefly during our discussion of rhizomes, they call this methodology molecule design. In this section, we discuss the basics of molecule design and adapt it to the architectural concepts we have explored thus far.
McMillan and Azar’s concept of molecule design is primarily focused on the relationship between play spaces, treated in their graphs as nodes and edges. Nodes are the play spaces themselves—areas with significant enemy encounters, item pickups, spawn points, or opportunities for action. Edges describe the relationship between these spaces, be they visual or spatial (as in you can travel from one to another). One addition implied in McMillan and Azar’s article is that of visual language, that we can formally add for our purposes to the diagrams to dictate what the proximities between nodes and the size or nature of your edges mean. In Figure 3.27, dotted lines show that spaces are viewable from one another, and solid lines show that you can move from one to another. Arrows on the solid lines show if spaces are one way, and thick lines show that spaces between the nodes are direct paths. Level plan and section drawings are included to show a level space that may be designed from such a molecule.
This methodology greatly resembles the Nintendo Power method discussed in Chapter 2, but engages spatial design on a more conceptual level. It is important to note that the shapes of these molecules are not necessarily the layout of the level, but a description of how spaces interact with one another. To demonstrate this, Figure 3.28 shows another set of level drawings that can be derived from the molecule diagram in Figure 3.27.
FIGURE 3.27 This molecule diagram establishes links between nodal gamespaces with the use of edges. A visual language has been established for edges to help describe elements of three-dimensionality as shown in the accompanying plan and section drawings of the level.
FIGURE 3.28 This set of level drawings is derived from the same molecule diagram found in Figure 3.27. Molecules describe relationships rather than actual level space.
Understanding the abstract nature of molecule diagrams is important for utilizing McMillan and Azar’s last important concept: Steiner points. In graph theory, a Steiner tree is a spatial puzzle where the player must find the shortest point between two lines, constructed from points labeled A, B, and C, where A connects to B, B connects to C, but C does not connect to A. In McMillan and Azar’s example, the answer to the puzzle is a slight cheat, where players can draw a node directly in the middle of the three that is connected to each. This is a Steiner point (Figure 3.29). Steiner points in level design can occur in any spatial scenario where a player may access play spaces vertically, that is, by climbing or jumping from a nodal gamespace to a Steiner point space, then into another nodal gamespace in the molecule diagram (Figure 3.30). Steiner points are essentially shortcuts in level paths. These can be utilized purely by jumping from high ledges onto lower ones to save time, or may even be incentivized with power-ups or other rare items.
FIGURE 3.29 This diagram shows the Steiner tree puzzle and the answer utilizing a Steiner point.
FIGURE 3.30 Steiner points in level design may be used to conceptualize secrets, or shortcuts. These diagrams of tracks from Mario Kart 64 show how Steiner points (and some considerable skill) may be employed to skip large portions of the game’s two longest tracks.
Now that we have discussed the basics of McMillan and Azar’s molecule design principles, we will see how we can further integrate them with our own architectural approach.
Spatial Types as Molecule Nodes and Edges
Molecule diagrams are very abstract. As such, they leave a lot of guesswork about what could be used as a significant gameplay node. We have already discussed many spatial principles that can be useful for defining these spaces. In the previous chapter, we established that in level design, form often follows core mechanics. Likewise, nodal gamespaces in your own molecule diagrams can represent areas where the player employs unique or intense applications of your core mechanics: big gun fights, sharp turns, boss battles, difficult platforming, etc. These nodes are also opportunities to emphasize the genius loci of your level. To once again use Slender: The Eight Pages as an example, each landmark in the wooded maze carries its own experience unique from the rest of the course. In the infamous bathhouse, for example, the normally prospect-structured space of the game world suddenly becomes a maze of narrow hallways where Slender Man could be around any corner. While the transitional edges between such landmark nodes allow for encounters with Slender Man, they ultimately shuffle players between more notable gameplay nodes.
Slender also demonstrates an important distinction of using spatial types as nodes. While the game itself is structured as a Versailles-esque maze, several of the nodes contain their own smaller maze spaces. The circulation spaces that bring players from one node to another may be very linear, as may the nodes themselves. In a level prototype based on Washington, D.C.’s, Sackler Gallery of Art, an underground museum with a downward-spiraling ramp system, the transitional spaces utilize the downward ramps to take players from one intense gamespace to another. In the more intense sections were either unicursal corridors that would use atmospheric effects or tight mazes for enemies, in this case zombies, to inhabit (Figure 3.31).
Molecule diagrams may also describe spaces where spatial size changes significantly. As described previously, size changes create their own special gameplay scenarios. McMillan and Azar pay special attention to spawn points in their article: the spaces where players begin a level or come back to life during multiplayer matches. These spaces may be large but intimate, allowing players to gather resources before rejoining battles. Likewise, transitional spaces may be equally intimate, keeping players on an even playing field when inside, but leading to large prospect spaces where players may gain spatial advantage over one another (Figure 3.32). In single-player games, where players can often better admire the designs of levels, transitions from intimately or narrowly scaled circulation to prospect spaces may not only describe changes in gameplay intensity, but also create their own “Jesus Christ spot” experiences.
FIGURE 3.31 This image of a prototyped level shows how transitional spaces (the downward spiraling ramps) may be linear, while the nodal gamespaces may follow their own linear or branching pathways on a smaller scale.
If one reverses this dynamic, prospect-scaled transitional spaces allow for the generous usage of Steiner points. In the previous Sackler Gallery level prototype, the entire circulation space is a Steiner point that players may utilize within the limits of the player character’s ability to fall from heights without taking damage. Alternatively, Metroid Prime 2: Echoes utilizes prospect/circulation spaces as challenges. The Steiner point ability to jump from higher levels to lower ones is used as an obstacle in sections where players must scale a set of platforms to progress in the game (Figure 3.33). Later, if the player is returning from the higher gamespaces, the Steiner point becomes a shortcut again.
In the next section, we explore another diagram type similar to molecule diagrams, though much less abstract. These diagrams will help us determine how to join related gameplay events already outlined for levels to one another.
FIGURE 3.32 This drawing and molecule diagram of a multiplayer map from Halo 4 shows how players move from intimate hallway spaces into prospect nodes where they may gain strategic advantages over one another.
FIGURE 3.33 This drawing of the Agon Wastes environment from Metroid Prime 2: Echoes and the accompanying molecule diagram show how Steiner points are used as obstacles: failure to jump to platforms where one may progress results in a return to earlier areas.
FORM FOLLOWS GAMEPLAY WITH PROXIMITY DIAGRAMS
When a property owner wants to build a building, he or she often outlines a building program to give to potential architects. The program is a list of necessary functions the building must perform and spaces the building must have. Similarly, in Chapter 2, we discussed how level designers begin their design with a vision of the types of gameplay experiences it should have. This form follows function approach allows us to relate our level designs to the mechanics of the games we are designing them for.
Molecule design diagrams, which we discussed in the previous section, are very similar to a diagram type that architects use to organize building program requirements into building spaces: proximity diagrams. Proximity diagrams, like molecule diagrams, are made up of bubbles and connected with lines. The bubbles represent rooms or spaces that are to be part of the building and are sized according to square footage requirements for these spaces. Likewise, lines connecting the bubbles are sized according to how important it is for them to be adjacent21 (Figure 3.34). Also like molecule diagrams, proximity diagrams are not actual spatial plans. They are a tool for analyzing the functional idea for a building, but should not be understood as its final spatial plan.22
FIGURE 3.34 A building proximity diagram. Each bubble is sized according to the required square footage of a space. The sizes of lines show the necessity of spaces being adjacent in the final building.
FIGURE 3.35 A proximity diagram for a multiplayer first-person shooter (FPS) level. In this example, it is important for each sniper position to have a view of the main competition area for each spawn point to have access to gear. Despite the layout of the diagram, the final design can (and should) look drastically different.
Proximity diagrams can be used for level design as they would be used for real-world architecture. Rather than each bubble having the name or square footage for a functional building space, they have the names of gameplay spaces in them, such as boss room, sniping spot, or finish line. The sizes of these bubbles can stand for their size type. The sizes and type of line used to connect the bubbles can describe proximity priority and the type of connection spaces have. For example, it may be important for sniping positions to have a view of a large prospect space in a map, even if the player must actually travel a long set of corridors to get there (Figure 3.35).
Now that we have looked at some methods for organizing spaces in levels, we will explore some common world conigurations found in games to discover how they are organized for ease of use and enjoyment.
Beyond the spatial and organizational concepts already discussed, there exist other spatial types that deserve consideration. The first of these are hub spaces. Hubs are a type of intimate space where the player may access a game’s different levels. Many hubs are non-threatening and offer players the ability to explore within the metrics of their character’s abilities. Hubs distinguish themselves from other game world structures, such as sandboxes, which we discuss later, by separating levels from more intense gamespaces through the use of portals, doors, or some other device (Figure 3.36).
FIGURE 3.36 Hub levels include spaces such as Princess Peach's Castle from Super Mario 64 and Station Square in Sonic Adventure. They both lead players from environment to environment while allowing them to backtrack and freely explore.
Hubs became popular in 3D games like Super Mario 64 and Banjo Kazooie as a way to facilitate player travel between different environments. In this way, they are semi-rhizomatic: they offer a central point from which to jump from gamespace to gamespace. From a performance standpoint, these hubs allow levels to be loaded one at a time rather than create the level of seamlessness that one might expect in a large sandbox environment. Also, they offer a narrative “out” for games that wish to have characters travel to themed worlds such as ice, volcano, jungle, etc. when it would otherwise be illogical.
From a gameplay standpoint, hubs are notable for how they manage player goals. Hub-based games are typically structured around collecting resources, gold stars, puzzle pieces, etc., that facilitate travel through the game world and unlock portals. As players complete more intense gameplay challenges, they collect more of the unlocking resources and can access new levels. While hub-based games offer an overall labyrinthine model through the general order in which one engages levels, they also offer great freedom to players in determining what missions to take, when and if to backtrack, or how long they wish to explore each level (Figure 3.37).
FIGURE 3.37 This diagram shows how hub-based games are typically structured. They represent a ladder of sorts where the overall journey is linear, but the activity of how to overcome each rung is largely determined by the player.
In many ways, hubs offer the best of both linear and open styles of gameplay. In the next section, we will explore another type of space that offers players almost complete freedom over their gameplay experience.
In single-player games, developers create the feeling of a large open world by utilizing sandbox gamespaces. Sandbox worlds are named for their ability to have defined boundaries but also allow players to play however they want in less structured ways than many other games allow. One might imagine that the design of sandbox worlds is simple: provide the player with a large open set of spaces in which to play, and give him or her things to do. However, large spaces carry with them the problems of user orientation and location awareness.
As many real-world spatial designers know, these are problems regularly encountered by urban planners. It is perhaps not surprising that many of the most popular sandbox worlds are themselves cities. In this section, we will explore some urban design principles that can be used to build successful sandbox spaces.
Pathfinding with Architectural Weenies
Perhaps one of the most important elements of sandbox spaces comes from creative pioneer Walt Disney. While shooting live action films with dogs, his studio would often need them to run across the set. To accomplish this, they would use sausages, which Disney called weenies, to entice the animals to run in the direction they wanted. Disney described tall buildings in his parks as having a similar effect for patrons by assisting with directional orientation. Jesse Schell, author of The Art of Game Design: A Book of Lenses and one of the designers on Pirates of the Caribbean: Battle for Buccaneer Gold, used the term architectural weenie to describe landmarks used to attract players to goal points in their game.23
Architectural weenies are an integral part of sandbox spaces. They allow these worlds to retain their openness but still direct players to places that designers want them to go. Many designers, such as Scott Rogers, cite Disneyland and its twin, the Magic Kingdom, as inspiration for much of their level design knowledge. In the design of Disneyland, Sleeping Beauty Castle, Splash Mountain, and other attractions not only direct visitors to themselves, but allow them to understand where they are by using these elements as guide points. In Grand Theft Auto IV’s24 take on Liberty City, landmarks like the Statue of Happiness and Rotterdam Tower serve similar functions: directing players to them but also acting as guideposts while wandering the landscape. In Schell’s examples, the term architectural is used to describe how level designers create not only designed building spaces, but also designed natural spaces, as Battle for Buccaneer Gold uses volcanoes, burning towns, and other attention-getting sights. Schell’s designation of these objects also shows how architectural weenies can take many forms beyond tall buildings.
One game that cleverly uses architectural weenies is Half-Life 2: Episode 2. In one scene, players must use a radio to alert allies of an impending alien attack. The narrative sequence of this scene requires players to enter a building to determine that the radio both exists and cannot power up. Then, players must explore a nearby building to find the power source for the complex and switch it on (Figure 3.38). To keep the open feel of the landscape while directing player action, the developers textured the radio building with bright red and yellow hues and textured the larger tower building in drab browns. Despite its smaller size, this turned the radio building into an architectural weenie by making it stand out more against the natural greens, blues, and browns of the wooded landscape.25
FIGURE 3.38 A plan of the radio tower complex in Half-Life 2: Episode 2. While smaller, the radio building is textured with brighter colors that contrast with the greens and blues of the landscape. This directs player attention to it first, rather than the dark browns of the radio tower building itself.
Clearly, architectural weenies can take a multitude of forms. They can also serve a variety of tasks, including directing player action and helping players better navigate gamespace. In the next section, we will explore how this concept and others can further help players navigate sandbox worlds.
Organizing the Sandbox: Kevin Lynch’s Image of the City
As stated previously, finding one’s way in a large open space can be daunting. For this reason, urban planners have developed a number of organization principles for how to structure urban spaces. In his influential book The Image of the City,26 urban planner Kevin Lynch reports the results of a five-year study of how people form mental maps of cities. From this study, Lynch advocates aiding visitors by organizing cities with these elements: landmarks, paths, nodes, districts, and boundaries. Organizing cities in this way creates what he calls legibility for observers of a city,27 which is what we should strive to achieve in our own sandbox gamespaces. This section will look at each of these elements to understand how they may be applied to video game sandbox spaces.
Landmarks are recognizable elements that can be guideposts to people in an urban space.28 This definition should sound very similar to the concept of architectural weenies, as they are the same thing. As we discussed in the previous section, landmarks not only call attention to themselves, but also allow players to orient themselves by observing their relationship to the landmark in space. As many games do not utilize just urban-themed sandbox worlds—with popular choices including fantasy, post-apocalyptic, or historic landscapes—these landmarks can be natural objects or humanmade elements that contrast with the rest of the landscape.
Half-Life 2 utilizes landmarks in an interesting way different from how they are typically used in sandbox games. While not a sandbox game itself, Half-Life 2 strives to create the feeling of a large, seamless world by dividing levels with minimal fanfare: no menus, cutscenes, or other conspicuous scene transitions. The game establishes early on that a distant tower, the Citadel, is the home base of the game’s villains, and that the player’s final goal is to eventually reach and destroy it (Figure 3.39). This tower is visible from most levels in the game, and players can track their progress by observing how close they are to the structure.
FIGURE 3.39 The Citadel in Half-Life 2 is a useful landmark for players to understand not only where they are in the game’s large world, but also how far they have progressed in the game itself. The game establishes early on that its climax will take place there.
The Citadel shows how versatile landmarks are. They can direct player action, allow them to orient themselves in a large sandbox space, or track their progress by measuring their proximity to them.
We have already discussed circulation spaces, channels for travel that connect significant gamespaces. Lynch discusses these types of spaces in his book as paths.29 Paths in urban design include roads, sidewalks, and other thoroughfares that allow people to travel through the city.
In terms of molecule design, these paths are the lines that connect significant gamespaces. They can have their own challenges, but are often intimately scaled spaces without significant aesthetic features. Their purpose is to usher players through to the next point of important gameplay. In our previous example of Liberty City, paths are the same types of spaces—streets, sidewalks, etc.—as those suggested by Lynch.
On the other hand, games like The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim do not represent their sandboxes as large urban spaces, but as open landscapes. As such, many of the paths between towns, dungeons, and forts are much less direct and are, in fact, open fields. This allows players to enact their own Steiner points by taking direct routes between landmarks. While these paths might not be explicitly designed as such, they are recognizable. However, they run the risk of getting the player lost in their vast openness. To mitigate this, designers use subtle geographic features such as dirt paths, signposts, or rivers to evoke more direct pathways represented in urban plans.
For designers working in engines such as those described in Chapter 2, keeping these guidelines in mind when working with tools such as in-engine terrain editors is important for creating worlds that are not just aesthetically attractive, but also usable.
In many urban spaces, the intersections of pathways offer a variety of opportunities for engaging users. Not only can they be their own guide points for navigation (such as when you direct someone to a business by telling them what corner it is on), but they can also be places for people to gather or interact (Figure 3.40). Lynch calls these intersections nodes and highlights how they can be important focal points for large networks of paths.30
Nodes can be locations for landmarks to reside, channeling different paths onto one end goal. They can also, as Lynch points out, be strategic decision points31 at which observers can decide what path to take next. In many open-world games such as Skyrim, such decision nodes are everywhere, forcing players to prioritize how they wish to spend their time: do you want to go find things to do in a town or explore dungeons?
FIGURE 3.40 Nodes at the intersections of paths offer opportunities for players to make strategic choices of where to go next in a game world and interact with NPCs or other players that may be gathered there.
These decisions become even more interesting when they take on moral or narratological purposes. For example, Rockstar Vancouver’s high school-themed sandbox game Bully32 allows players to explore the fictional town and private school campus, taking on missions for various cliques in the school. The reputation the player has with each clique—bullies, jocks, nerds, greasers, and preppies—forms the game’s morality system. If the player does something to impress the nerds, he or she may lose the favor of the jocks, etc. Spatially, the game offers many nodes at which the player can not only interact with NPCs, but also choose clique-friendly locations such as the gym, library, or autoshop (Figure 3.41).
Edges, according to Lynch, are boundaries not formed by paths. They are linear elements that mark a transition from one continuous area or condition to the next. Edges can be walls, rows of buildings, changes in vegetation, or other markers that show that an area has changed in character or genius loci.33 In sandbox games, areas of varying genius loci allow players to feel that the world has variety in the way that games with distinct level theme types—ice, fire, forest, etc.—have (Figure 3.42).
FIGURE 3.41 The grounds immediately outside the Bullworth Academy school building in the game Bully are a node that offers access to a number of landmarks important to the game’s various cliques. The academy building itself is a landmark that also serves as an architectural weenie, allowing players to orient themselves by their spatial relationship to it.
FIGURE 3.42 Different types of edges in sandbox worlds.
In 1949, mythologist Joseph Campbell described the hero’s journey monomyth in his book The Hero with a Thousand Faces.34 As summarized by Campbell, the hero’s journey plays out in this manner:
A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.35
In Origins of Architectural Pleasure, architect Grant Hildebrand considers a spatial version of the monomyth focused on the journey’s materiality. Materiality is the understanding of textural and visual qualities of a surface. As applied to the hero’s journey, Hildebrand notes that as the hero ventures from his world, the materiality of his surroundings change from that of comfort, to epic wilderness, and often to a dark, corrupted state when encountering the final enemy.36 One sees this pattern play out in numerous works of literature, film, and games: from Beowulf37 to The Legend of Zelda.
From a production standpoint, edges can mark a change in art style. The type of architectural or vegetation models you use can shift, signifying the change to a new area. Likewise, transitions between textures on surfaces can generate player-perceived edges. These transitions can be quick or gradual. A quick transition may mark a defined border, and can often be accompanied by architectural details such as walls or gates, as landscape rarely transitions suddenly. These are especially useful if the area you are entering is the site of an event—a battle, fire, alien encounter, etc.—or if you are transitioning the realm of a specific group. Gradual transitions, on the other hand, may help build anticipation for reaching a new zone. Burned trees, arrows, and other ammunition sticking out of the scenery, etc., can give the impression that you are about to enter a dangerous area, creating a tension when approaching it. They can also indicate that you are reaching a natural border between environment types—plains to forest, desert to canyon, etc.
The last of Lynch’s elements is the district, which he describes as sections of a city where the observer enters “inside of” and which have some identifying character.38 In the previous section, we discussed how changes in art style, environment art elements, and texture can indicate changes in environments within a sandbox world. Once past these edges, players find themselves within districts (Figure 3.43).
FIGURE 3.43 A theoretical game map showing districts.
Beyond changes in style, districts in games differentiate themselves from one another with changes in gameplay: types of NPCs, enemies, events, or mini-games. Districts can be containers for distinct narrative events or gameplay challenges. In the example of Disneyland, the park is divided into distinct districts: Tomorrowland, Fantasyland, Frontierland, and others that have their own distinct character and set of themed attractions. Likewise, Grand Theft Auto IV’s Liberty City has several distinct districts of its own: the Algonquin district features skyscrapers and nightclubs, while Broker is a relatively poor district where the player first interacts with several of the city’s criminals.
If sandbox worlds do not have distinct districts, or if districts do not have their own unique gameplay elements, sandbox worlds can feel empty. In the unfortunate case of Santa Destroy from the game No More Heroes,39 the city has many landmarks but few distinct areas of town. Instead, the entire city is a South Los Angeles-styled environment with a few disparate shops and locations to explore and take on missions. The game’s action stages, on the other hand, occur in more distinct linear environments separated from this sandbox world. As reviewer Mark Bozon pointed out, “If the game was based only on the open world style, it would have been a pretty sizable disappointment.”40 If the unique character of the game’s action levels were carried over to the sandbox world, the city might have not only been more fun to explore, but also more believable as an urban space.
Clearly, a successful sandbox world is based on how well a player can “read” and understand it. In many games, as in real-world architecture, lines of sight and understanding the point of view of players are of the utmost importance. What, however, is the designer to do with the spatial lessons we have discussed—largely based on real-world first-person points of view—if a game is in the third person, or even in two dimensions? In the next section, we will discuss how a player’s point of view impacts gamespace.
Since the release of the German driving game Nurburgring 141 in 1975 and its American counterpart Night Driver42 in 1976, first-person games have been a part of the gaming landscape. However, it was not until the early 1990s and the release of id Software’s Wolfenstein 3D43 that first-person games grew to the dominance they hold today. Indeed, many first-person games prior to Wolfenstein had abstract vector graphics or had to show static images rather than displaying a real-time textured 3D environment. Meanwhile, other games utilized 2D viewpoints from the side of the player character, known as side scrolling (Figure 3.44), or from above the player character, known as top down (Figure 3.45), to show the action of a game. There were even axonometric (popularly called isometric) games such as Zaxxon44 and Q*Bert45 (Figure 3.46).
FIGURE 3.44 A 2D side-scrolling game. The view could be said to be a section of the gamespace.
FIGURE 3.45 A 2D top-down game. The view could be said to be a plan of the gamespace.
FIGURE 3.46 A 2D axonometric game.
In many modern game engines, point of view is dependent on where the designer places the camera, an object from which the player views gameplay. In a first-person game, the camera is located on a player object and given scripts that allow the player to look around freely. In a 2D game, the camera looks from either the top or side and often has options for perspective turned off, giving the camera an orthographic view. Axonometric and isometric views often feature cameras that look down on the player from up high. In this section, we will discuss how camera placement offers different limitations and opportunities for how gamespace is viewed.
As most modern games are 3D, and since architecture is most often experienced by visitors in a three-dimensional fashion, we will discuss 3D views in games first. The two most popular viewpoints for 3D games are from the first-person view and the third-person view,
where the camera is located outside of the player character’s body. While the difference between these two viewpoints is often minimal, there are gameplay situations better suited to one or the other, which we will explore here.
First-person games are those where the camera is located in the “head” of the player character mesh (if the game uses a defined mesh for the player character at all) and action is viewed from the character’s eye level. This is the most natural game view, as it is the view from which we view our own world (Figure 3.47).
It is in first-person games where level designers have full use of many of the architectural concepts discussed in this book. It is also where designers must use the most architectural tricks to capture players’ attention, as the player has control over where the camera is looking, unlike in other game types. In Half-Life 2, for example, designers had to find ways to keep players near narrative events where NPCs were talking, since the game does not use passive cutscenes. Indeed, during narrative events and gameplay, designers must create lines of sight to direct player attention to details or direct their movement. The exterior contours of a gamespace are not visible from this point of view, so spatial size types, architectural weenies, and other design arrangements must be used to usher players through the gamespace.
From a gameplay perspective, first-person games can be very immersive, allowing the player to better take on the role of the game’s protagonist. There are things that can also be limiting in first-person views, such as platform jumping and melee fighting mechanics that often benefit from a wider perspective.
FIGURE 3.47 Cameras in first-person games are located at the eye level of a player character and allow for maximum use of sight lines.
Third-person games are those in which the viewport camera is placed somewhere outside of the player character’s body. Even among third-person games, there are many different varieties of view types. The first is rotating camera, which has the camera move around the player either in or out of his or her control. The second is behind, where the camera stays at a fixed point behind the player, typically by making the camera a child object of the player object. The third is over-the-shoulder, a semi-hybrid of first and third person where the camera is close behind the player character and allows the player to move the camera to look where the character is looking (Figure 3.48).
Third-person games offer many of the same spatial opportunities as first-person games, most notably the ability to create full 3D environments where lines of sight and other visual tricks can be used to direct player attention. They also offer opportunities to play with a camera’s sense of perspective: by changing viewing angle options that many game engine third-person cameras have, designers can get trippy Tim Burton-esque angles and perspectives46 (Figure 3.49). Third-person cameras are also used in fixed-perspective games such as Resident Evil47 or Killer 748 to create cinematic camera angles: shots from below, in front, close up, or others. These can greatly increase the dramatic effect of certain scenes, though often come at the cost of ease of control of the player character.
FIGURE 3.48 Three common types of third-person perspective in games.
FIGURE 3.49 In this screenshot from the short game The Nightmare Over Innsmouth, prepared for a presentation at the Game Developers Conference (GDC) in China, the designer modified the camera lens angle to get a warped perspective effect.
Third-person games offer additional opportunities for 3D game types that first-person games often struggle with. The most notable is platform jumping, since the player can see where the player character’s feet will land. Designers often add a shadow underneath the player character to further help players find their way, such as in Super Mario 64. This is even more helpful in games with more acrobatic platforming, such as The Prince of Persia: Sands of Time,49 where players can take time to line their character up with poles, swings, ledges, and other obstacles that the Prince can climb on. This game also features brawler-style melee combat where players must move in and out of groups of enemies, something that would be difficult to do in first person.
Third-person games suffer in the area that first-person games excel in: aiming. Camera AI is also notoriously difficult to code well, so cameras that “want to kill players” are a common problem in third-person games. Over-the-shoulder third person mitigates this to a point, though some line-of-sight spatial relationships are better understood in first person.
Before good-looking 3D was technologically possible, 2D games dominated the industry. Visually, a textured surface in 2D was more believable than the vector-generated surfaces of many early 3D games. In terms of mechanics, many of the things one can do in a 3D game can be done in a 2D game: platform jumping, shooting, exploration, and others. Since the heyday of 2D was when gaming devices were not powerful enough to create realistic graphics, 3D games were long considered to have a presentational advantage over 2D games. Now, as 2D games are being revisited on modern gaming technology, they are home to presentational styles that mimic hand-made arts such as painting, sculpting, crafts, and even knitting.
Games viewed at a 2D perspective have an interesting ability that most 3D games do not: showing the player things that are beyond the eyesight of the player character. In the Metroid series, it is common for players to see an upgrade hidden in several feet of rock waiting to be claimed, though the player character would logically have no idea it is there. This technique is very similar to the one employed by director Alfred Hitchcock to create suspense in his films.
A favorite example of Hitchcock’s was to propose a scene where two people were sitting at a table, but the camera pans down to show that a bomb is underneath. That the diners do not know of the impending doom instills the scene with suspense for the audience that does get to see the bomb.51 The game Metroid Fusion52 utilizes this when an evil clone of heroine Samus Aran, the SA-X, walks through a hallway that is below the player. While Samus herself would possibly be able to hear the footsteps of the clone, the player gets a suspenseful view of how narrowly he or she is escaping death (Figure 3.50). Sadly, this technique is underused in 2D games, though there are other view-specific techniques that apply to the two most popular types of 2D views: side scrolling and top down.
FIGURE 3.50 The Metroid series uses 2D perspectives to show players the location of hidden items and passages. Likewise, Metroid Fusion uses this perspective to create Hitchcock-esque scenes of suspense.
Side-scrolling gamespaces are ones viewed from the side of the player character as though looking at a building section. Side scrollers can be some of the most spatially limiting level types, as there is not much one can design in the way of pathfinding. One’s location in a side-scrolling level can also be difficult to track, especially in large open-world 2D games, typically termed Metroidvania for their popularity in the Metroid and Castlevania series.
The simplicity of side scrollers makes them effective at teaching their own mechanics: they put everything the player needs to know in a screen-shot’s distance from his or her avatar. Side-scrolling games often deal with action best understood from a “to the side” point of view, such as jumping, climbing, flying, and shooting. As such, it is important that when designing side-scrolling levels, there are very few “leaps of faith” that the player must take. Even large pitfall obstacles must show you their other end in one screenshot’s width from the side where the player is standing (Figure 3.51). It is important for side scrollers to practice their own type of visual level metrics. Beyond simply making obstacles easily understandable, enemies and enemy projectiles should always leave enough time from when they enter the screen to when they reach the player such that the player has a chance to see and avoid them (Figure 3.52).
Unfortunately, side scrollers render many of the pathfinding and orientation methods we have discussed thus far useless. There are some, however, that experiment with not only height and width, but also depth by putting 2D level environments in layers that can be moved through forward and backward. Games such as Shantae: Risky’s Revenge53 utilize this to give in-game villages a more realistic feel. Mazes in this game are more complex, as the player must not only move through left/right (x) and up/down (y) axes, but also forward/backward (z) (Figure 3.53).
FIGURE 3.51 In 2D side scrollers, designers should avoid adding “leaps of faith” to their games and always allow players to see the other side of obstacles from within one screen’s width.
FIGURE 3.52 Enemies and their projectiles in 2D side scrollers should leave enough time from when they enter the screen to when they reach the player so that the player has a chance to avoid them.
FIGURE 3.53 Many environments in Shantae: Risky’s Revenge allow the player to move forward and backward through layers of 2D side-scrolling environments. These add another level of depth to in-game mazes and dungeons not common in many side-scrolling games.
Top-down gamespaces are ones where gameplay is viewed from above the player character as though looking at a building plan. Indeed, many early games resembled maps and building plans. On one hand, top-down games offer little in terms of creating sight lines and other things that are common in 3D games. However, they excel at creating opportunities for orientation, as many gamespaces can be understood in plan. These spaces can be understood as following the cardinal directions of north, south, east, and west, so devices like landmarks allow players to find their way through large gamespaces (i.e., “I am north of Hyrule Castle”).
FIGURE 3.54 Like side-scrolling games, top-down games can show players things that the player character cannot necessarily see.
Like side scrollers, top-down games share the potential for Hitchcock-style suspense due to their ability to show players things that the player character cannot necessarily see (Figure 3.54). Also like side scrollers, enemies should leave enough time between appearing on screen and when they hit the player such that the player has a chance to move.
Top-down games often feature mechanics that are best enacted in an expansive world, such as exploring or interacting with NPCs, though there are certainly exceptions. Top-down games, like side scrollers, are also well suited to mechanics that involve lining the player character up with a target such as shooting, sword fighting, or even rudimentary jumping. On the other hand, top-down games tend to be less reliant on reaction-based action than side scrollers, so more environmental information can be held off screen (Figure 3.55). In fact, withholding the entirety of a landscape or architectural feature in a top-down gamespace may actually invite players to explore further.
Now that we have explored the opportunities present in both 3D and 2D game views, we will look at those present in a type of gamespace that straddles the line between the two.
In the early 1980s, developers utilized a new game view type—the axono-metric game—to create the impression of 3D space while utilizing art that was still actually 2D. Following early axonometric games like Zaxxon and Q*Bert, this view continued to be popular in games from Knight Lore54 to Starcraft.55 In games, this point of view is often referred to as isometric, as that is the type of axonometric projection used to create the game art.
FIGURE 3.55 Since many top-down games involve exploring expansive worlds, information can be withheld off screen from players. Giving players incomplete information, such as showing part of a landmass or river in one screenshot, invites players to explore further.
In classic axonometric games, the game is typically viewed without perspectival distortion, that is, without the objects on screen viewed along sight lines that meet at a vanishing point. While purely axonometric images can create a dramatic 3D effect, they also come at the cost of depth perception for the player. Axonometric drawings are notorious for the creation of optical illusions such as that shown in Figure 3.56. When constructing axonometric gamespaces, it is important to show the vertical relationships between surfaces very clearly so players are not confused by an object’s position in space. Likewise, it is important to occlude, or disable the rendering of, foreground objects in these spaces so players do not lose their character when they move behind structures.
Isometric as a term has also been adopted by modern 3D game developers to describe a camera that is positioned at an angle above the player character looking down, with perspective options enabled on the camera object itself. This type of perspective is actually described as three-point perspective, as edges meet not only at horizontal vanishing points common to two-point perspective, but also at a vertical vanishing point below the level. Unlike actual isometric or axonometric views, changes in height are easily perceived thanks to the perspective option of the camera. This type of view, in both classic and 3D versions, allows for both a detailed 3D environment and the designer to show the player things that the player character cannot see.
FIGURE 3.56 Axonometric drawings can easily disorient the player if not drawn properly. When making these kinds of gamespaces, make sure you find ways to show vertical spatial relationships.
Axonometric views can make it difficult for players to orient themselves in space. Unlike top-down 2D views, the player cannot benefit from the use of cardinal directions. And since the camera is facing downward, they also cannot make use of sight lines, so as much information should be on screen as possible, unless the world is an expansive one similar to those found in top-down 2D games. However, isometric games allow designers to make dramatic use of spatial size types, as players can easily see how their character relates to the environment around them. Still possible is creating a sense of claustrophobia with narrow spaces or a sense of agoraphobia with prospect spaces. In fact, these spaces’ three-point perspective allow for the use of rhythmically arranged vertical elements to create a sense of epic hugeness in prospect spaces—creating a sense of vertigo as the player looks from the camera down at his or her character (Figure 3.57).
FIGURE 3.57 In this screenshot, regularly spaced biotanks are used in this lab environment to create a sense of vertigo from the camera down to the player character. This emphasizes the verticality of the gamespace, even though the player is viewing the game from a third-person perspective.
Now that we have discussed camera views and how they correlate with player perceptions of space in games, we will explore one last basic spatial concept. This concept will help us take an element unique to games and utilize it to toy with how a player perceives the nature of space around him or her in games.
ENEMIES AS ALTERNATIVE ARCHITECTURE
In Chambers for a Memory Palace, Lyndon and Moore describe the concept of allies: statues, short columns, and other architectural elements that are of similar scale to an occupant.56 Beyond iconographic significance, they point out that allies in a piece of architecture can make spaces more inviting. In games, non-player characters fulfill many of these functions and often have their own gameplay reason for being in a space, sending the player on quests, guarding doorways, etc. NPCs that instigate quests often prohibit players from moving through a space until specific tasks are accomplished. As such, NPCs can help designers drive player interaction with the game world.
One key difference between gamespaces and real architecture is that enemies, not just allies, can also inhabit gamespaces. Enemies offer level designers a unique type of architectural ally in their antagonistic relationship with the player. Where friendly NPCs may simply block a space until the player helps them, enemies block spaces by threatening to damage the player. As the player cannot directly pass through enemies without risking damage, game enemies can be seen as alternative architecture. In the train station environment at the beginning of Half-Life 2, alien soldiers are used as alternative architecture. While many games use locked or non-interactive doors to show a player they cannot enter a room, Half-Life 2 places sentries throughout a train station. If the player tries to pass, he or she is shoved back. Further attempts by the unarmed player are met with the aliens brandishing their weapons, an effective deterrent. Using interactive enemies rather than plain locked doors does several important things for the game: it builds Half-Life 2’s dystopian narrative without exposition, it directs player movement through the station, and it creates the feeling that this station is populated, just as Lyndon and Moore argue is the role of architectural allies.
Using enemies as architectural elements of a level can be a powerful tool for level designers when paired with narrow space as well. In the original Resident Evil, for example, zombies fill the narrow hallways of the Spencer Mansion. As they approach players, they block off progress through hallways while shrinking the space the player can safely occupy. Players in this situation must decide whether to risk running past the zombie or shoot it.
As the Resident Evil zombies demonstrate, even enemies with simple AI can be powerful spatial tools. In his essay “The Rules of Horror: Procedural Adaptation in Clock Tower, Resident Evil, and Dead Rising,” Matthew Weise describes a concept he calls the shrinking fortress in zombie films.57 In shrinking fortress scenarios, such as the one in Night of the Living Dead,58 the protagonists are surrounded by a large group of enemies, which continually advance on them and capture once-safe territory. In Night of the Living Dead, for example, survivors fight to protect themselves within a farmhouse. Eventually, the first floor of the house is overrun, and the heroes must retreat into the basement. This scenario can play out in games through story events that cut off previously accessible areas.
An even more powerful application of the shrinking fortress can occur in real time. Strong or difficult-to-kill enemies may be used to herd the player where the designer would like him or her to go (Figure 3.58). For this tactic to work, the enemies should be in overwhelming numbers, have powerful attacks, or be difficult to kill. A scenario like this often requires the level space itself to be large, though swarms of enemies will create the feeling of narrow space. Applications like these demonstrate the power that level designers have to use enemies, NPCs, and other game elements not traditionally viewed as architecture for architectural purposes.
FIGURE 3.58 Enemies may be used to herd players where designers want them to go. For this to work, a large number of difficult-to-kill enemies should be used.
In this chapter, we have explored some basic spatial types that we can use to form our game worlds. From micro-scaled articulations of additive and subtractive space to world structures such as sandboxes, hubs, and classic gamespaces, we now have a set of spatial configurations to create with the game engine tools discussed in Chapter 2. We also know how to cater gamespace to the kinds of gameplay experiences we wish them to house through spatial size types. To pace these elements out or study how they interact with one another, we can utilize molecule and proximity diagrams. We can also organize large worlds of gameplay through urban design principles. On the player end, we can cater player experiences of our gamespaces to the point of view they will have through in-game cameras. Lastly, we can use not only friendly NPCs, but also enemies to populate our game worlds, enhance the spatial types we have discussed, and direct player action.
In Chapter 4, we will discuss more directly how to create game levels that teach the mechanics of a game to players and reinforce these mechanics through the entirety of a game.
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