Finish This Sentence: Play Is: Transcript

Pedro Reyes: Play is central to the creative process. To have room to play is to have room to say what if?

Eric Zimmerman: There is the play of shadows on the wall. There’s the idea of playing a musical instrument.

Jade Ivy: Going outside and playing Woodchucks with your friends, like, on a warm, sunny day. You’re just kicking back, relaxing.

Eric Turiel: Relax, take a load off.

Tritemare: Very reminiscent of childhood, early things. Things that ordinarily aren’t fun become fun.

Charlotte Richards: Starting from when we’re really young, it’s the foundation of how we learn, how we have fun.

Mattie Brice: Play is a context where we practice or live through—sort of—alternate realities and experiment with new customs and protocols for various forms of catharsis or exploration.

Travis Larchuk: You’ve got work, rest, and play. Play is the one that is not work or rest.

Jaden D. Francis: Dancing with my mom. And I play with my bike.

Tracy Fullerton: Play is movement within constraints.

Jane Friedhoff: I tend to think about play as existing within a set of confines or constraints, and thinking about creative ways to kind of move in, out, and around them, to subvert them, to take advantage of them.

Sam Roberts: One of the things that lets us immerse totally into play is when we know there is a safety net there, right? It’s like, you’re not happy to jump from a height unless you know something below can catch you, right? Play is a trust exercise. Close your eyes and fall backwards and hope that they catch you.

Alioune N’gom: Play is putting yourself in a situation that is not reality and interacting with other people in a situation that is not necessarily a one-to-one match with reality.

Everett Phillips: Play is laughter. That would be my one-word answer.

Duke DeVilling: Play and sports just go hand in hand.

Kristen Skillman: Relaxing and it takes your mind off of the more serious things.

Randall Roberts: It’s almost like meditation with a smile. It’s chasing after that, it’s chasing after bliss.

Amanda Penny: Play is imaginative because you get to put your own way to everything and it’s just kind of creative!

Courtney Price: Play doesn’t necessarily create anything. It isn’t necessary. It’s funny because I think it’s so necessary. [laughter]

Stephanie Barish: Play is my favorite thing.

Return to the video.

The Power of Play: An Essay

A board game deconstructs the mystifying traditions and abuses of power inherent in traditional arranged marriages and a game designer learns that her game is the perfect platform to start a dialogue about matters that would otherwise go unspoken.

I have always felt that play is one of the easiest ways to bring people together. Families and friends congregate around games, and the worst result might be an agitated player flipping over the board.

My belief is that if a game like Monopoly can trigger such strong emotions, a game with an underlying narrative can be the perfect platform to start a dialogue about matters that would otherwise go unspoken. This is precisely what I do with the games I design. For me, game design is a medium that provides an accessible, interactive way for people to discuss serious topics—and the most serious, nerve-wracking topic in my life has been the prospect of an arranged marriage.

When going about an arranged marriage, one cannot avoid the “Rishta Aunty:” the disingenuous matchmaker that most girls meet in order to be paired with an eligible young man. My teenage years were overshadowed by this prospect, and I grew up under the Rishta Aunty’s watchful eye. I was expected to behave and dress in a manner that would endear me to her, so that she might consider better marriage options for me. What was most alarming was that these auditions were never about who I was or what I wanted. What mattered was my appearance and family background.

I realized that being away had made no difference to the pressures and norms in my country.

After years of societal pressure, I took things into my own hands, and enrolled in an American university in an effort to escape the prospect of an arranged marriage. Little did I know that once a Rishta Aunty knew of my existence, she would play an unwanted role in my life, until death (or better, a marriage) do us part. The first time I returned to Karachi for a family wedding, I realized that being away had made no difference to the pressures and norms in my country. Once again, I felt I was being auditioned for roles that I hadn’t chosen: a submissive daughter-in-law, a doting housewife, a baby factory.

While I watched this unfold, I could see the collateral damage of the Rishta Aunty among my friends and family. Most of my friends hid their unhappy marriages from society, but would confess to me in secrecy a common wish: that they hadn’t gotten married. I was frustrated and saddened for them, while at the same time terrified for myself. Of course, I couldn’t say anything. These issues were taboo, and speaking ill of a Rishta Aunty is like signing away your future. I needed an outlet for that pent-up anger, and so I did what I knew best. I turned it into a board game.

I began by listing all the methods I had used to make myself as ineligible as possible: wearing fake engagement rings, pretending to have a boyfriend, spilling the tea tray in front of the aunties, and getting a tan, to name a few. I added issues and ideas that I’d never been able to discuss back at home.

I then turned this list into a light-hearted game dedicated to running away from the Rishta Aunty. While the girls draw scandalous cards to move away from the Aunty, she moves closer to them as she discovers their proficiency in the kitchen or their sizeable dowry. Upon landing on the same tile as a girl, the Aunty marries them off to a less than desirable man.

I created this game to renew my sense of power and to provide some catharsis.

The game reaches a climax with the entry of the Golden Boy, the dreamy Mr. Right, who supports their careers and doesn’t live with his parents. When Mr. Right appears, the game dynamic shifts as the girls switch to the Golden Boy deck in order to flaunt their talents and potentially marry him.

I originally created this game to renew my sense of power and to provide some catharsis. However I also hoped that when people play around with the lives of three fictitious women, they would realize that the lives of millions of real women are also being played with.

The most important point of the game is that you can’t escape—the game cannot end until everyone is married. This harsh reality reflects how powerless many women in these positions are.

 

Plato once said: “You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.”

It was when I played the game with my close friends that I experienced this firsthand. I learned things about them that I never would have, due to the safe, open space created through the gameplay. One friend revealed that she was approached by an Aunty on the day of her father’s funeral. Another friend revealed that she met her husband on the day of their wedding. I realized not only how shameless some Rishta Aunties really were, but how all of us had suffered in silence. On the other hand, when men played this game, they discovered that women went through all of this psychological trauma right under their noses and they didn’t have a clue!

Arranged! has raised awareness through its satire and commentary.

Arranged! has not only spurred a global dialogue, it has also raised awareness through its satire and commentary. It has taken women around the world on an emotional journey, and has helped South Asian women gain the courage to speak to their families about avoiding some of the misogynistic traditions that accompany arranged marriages.

Catharsis wasn’t the only benefit of this game. In bringing to light all that is wrong with arranged marriage, I have blacklisted myself in the eyes of all Rishta Aunties. If I am ever approached by an Aunty who doesn’t know me, I now only have to say: “Just Google my name, and you won’t want your son to marry me.”

They can play my board game, but they can’t play with my life anymore. ♦

(Image credits: All images of Arranged! courtesy the author.)

Playground of My Mind: A Memoir

In our final installment from Julia Jacquette’s visual memoir, she shows us the unexpected importance of play spaces—their geometry, their geography, and the minds behind them—and how they shape us into adulthood. Need to catch up? You can read Parts 1, 2, 3, and 4.

 

Playground of My Mind: A Memoir

In the next-to-last installment of her visual memoir about playgrounds, artist Julia Jacquette reveals how the play spaces of our youth impact the shape of our lives. Need to catch up? Start over here.

 

The final installment of Playground of My Mind will appear next week.

The Gentle Verb: An Essay

Narrative designer Cara Ellison untangles the not-so-subtle distinctions between those who design games and those who design the narratives that drive them.

I design stories for video games. Some people think this means I’m the person who writes the line, Oh my god we’ve got to get out of here! Some studios still believe that this is all I should do: “Isn’t that what scriptwriters do? They write what characters say.”

But “narrative designers” have a broader remit. First we decide on the themes, the core motivation for telling a story, the politics of it. Then we create characters around those themes. Then comes the three-act structure: how the characters may change, and the minuscule plot details that lead you to a satisfying ending. Then, and only then, do you get to the dialogue. Slicing up the story so that it becomes a series of delicious, escalating, conflict-driven scenes (this is also how “branching narrative” is developed in games) is one of the hardest parts of the job. You decide what to show and how to make it the most interesting thing to show.

Most of this planning, this discussion, this detail work is the invisible part of the writing. Most people think that when someone sits down to make a story that it’s just as I am doing now: typing words into screenwriting software. But there are hours and hours of note taking, an agonizing amount of media consumption, standing in the shower, sitting in meeting rooms or cafes (notebook and pencil in hand), cursing and raging, and trying to entice a writing partner. Before you can begin writing the very first scene in a drama, many hair-pulling hours have been spent wondering if that scene will be worth the thousands of dollars that will be spent on making it to the screen. And that’s before even the first executive reads it (and probably hates it).

Each player becomes a performer of verbs within the virtual space.

Designing stories for video games is complicated further by one particular thing: the verb. Video games have a lot in common with theater and improv. The game designer creates a virtual space in which each player becomes a performer of verbs within that virtual space. The narrative designer’s job is not just to decide what is shown, as in film, but what it means that you can experience specific interactions. A film director may control what you are seeing and hearing at all times. But in games it is the set of verbs, or what labor you can do, that tells the story. It is the experience of what doing is available that tells the player who their character is, what their purpose is, and most importantly, gives them the experience of story. It’s perhaps the most empiricist of all mediums.

That a game’s story power comes from the verb is still controversial in games because a “game designer” and a “narrative designer” are not always the same person. When they are, the game has a better chance of being nuanced and meaningful. Yet game designers often are employed to undertake the considerable mechanical work of constructing the video game verb’s execution, while the narrative designer is supposed to give those verbs emotional resonance. This may not make sense to people outside of video games: Why isn’t the narrative designer directly constructing the mechanical production of narrative?

Unfortunately it has a lot to do with the separation of sciences and humanities in schools: the idea that tech or science know-how is for introvert non-fiction-reading, math-nerd men, while the humanities is for feelings-junkies and Austen-reading “girls.” This self-fulfilling prophecy, and a lack of a balanced education on both sides (a combination of communication, ethics, and literacy in the sciences, and tech literacy in the humanities) has hamstrung us. To look at blockbuster video games (and tech products like Twitter) is to recognize that few people in tech are schooled in the complicated Big Themes of Empathy and Communication, or in how to produce caring and nuanced people-friendly systems. This is often the result of a university system that proselytizes Product Innovation, Novelty, and the Free Market as king. Game developers are so overworked that by the time they get into the business with their hard-fought tech skills they have no time to sleep, never mind read Nabokov and contemplate theories of conflict resolution. And for the large part good storytellers are fantastically frightened of technology: when you’re already poor, taking two years to learn how to program is out of the question. So we two are stuck on the verb, and we have to work together, often with different creative languages.

If you cannot tell what the story is saying without sound or text, someone has failed as a storyteller.

As my technical skills in game design have leapt forward, one of the biggest realizations I have had is this: much like how animators or comics writers regard successful storytelling, it’s all in the action.If you cannot tell what the story is saying in a 3D game without voiceover or text, someone has failed as a storyteller. One of the best pieces of comics craft advice is: write each panel as if there were absolutely no dialogue. With just a glance at the page, the reader should know exactly what is happening and how the characters feel about it.

To implement this theory in a game, a narrative designer has to constantly pitch to her colleagues: the environment artists, the animators, the game designers, the audio designers, sometimes even the coders who determine the transition speeds and frequency of behaviors in-game. And these days I find myself more and more pitching to the team that we might consider having no dialogue at all. What if I design a story that needs no words? How can we do that well? What about using silence here? Isn’t that more powerful than being overloaded with sound and chit-chat?

We design for what the player can see or hear.

Some developers are incredulous at this coming from a job title they associate with screenwriting. But the advantage is that I am usually not asked to “fix” gameplay by having an obtuse piece of dialogue explain how to solve a puzzle, or how to connect A to B, or cover up a plot hole. We are forced to design so that mistakes cannot be made like this. We design for what the player can see or hear. There is less room for “Ah, Cara will fix it” (although, I still do fix things with story, plot, and character appearance). I sometimes glibly remark that I want to make my own job obsolete: the less dialogue the better the game is. But that’s me playing into my own complaint: narrative design isn’t just writing. It’s communicating in every form possible so that the natural output is that someone somewhere feels a connection to the material. After all, when we watch someone touch a loved one’s face, we don’t have to hear them say “I love you” to know that the action itself distills all the meaning we need. Now all we need to do is design a game capable of that gentle verb.  ♦

 

Photo credit: Image from caraellison.co.uk. Courtesy the author.

Ritual: An Essay

Can the communication central to certain immersive role-playing games help build empathy and resolve cultural misunderstandings? Game designer and writer Adam Dixon looks at some extraordinary games that are attempting just that—and succeeding. Missed part 1? Check it out here.

Other games use rules to explore other issues. The Quiet Year is a game about communities. Together, we play as the people of a small village, rather than individual characters. We work together to define that community—the landscape, people, politics and resources—and then we guide it through one year.

We start in the gentle days of spring. We take it in turns, each of them representing one week. When it is our turn we draw a card that gives us a prompt to answer.“How does a girl cause trouble?” “There’s a bad omen, what does it mean?” “Is there anyone else on the map?” Once asked, the player takes an action that further explores and changes the community. Seasons pass and as we approach autumn and winter things get harder. Divides grow wider, projects are sabotaged, the land becomes tough.

Our terse communication leaves gaps; spaces to interpret, to misunderstand.

Through all of this there is no freewheeling debate, the rules forbid that. We talk in clipped sentences, and only on our turn. Words are the most important thing, and the rules reflect that. Our terse communication leaves gaps; spaces to interpret, to misunderstand. If we want to break the silence, to actually communicate about an issue, we have only one respite. We can use our action to hold a discussion. Each of us offering a single line about a topic, reflecting a view from the community.

When the discussion ends, play passes to the next player, the next week. If we spend our time discussing a problem, we don’t get to act on it. Someone else has to do that, or we have to wait until our next turn, and by then other issues, other priorities will have inevitably emerged.

While we play we reveal the imperfections of our own communities. We are reminded of the inequality of our voices and opinions, and that even when we get a platform for our opinion, nuance is often lost. What gets conveyed depends on the audience’s willingness to hear. We get drowned out by people who think they know better, ignored because of who we are, overruled by those with an agenda.

When this happens in the game, when something happens that we don’t like or agree with, we have one recourse. We can take a contempt token, a symbol of our disapproval. We hold on to these tokens for as long as we like, we can give them up if we take a selfish action or someone makes amends. Largely though, they are an untethered mechanic: symbolic and cathartic.

We are offered a glimpse into what it’s like to experience something that disables us.

14 Days is a two-player game about living with chronic migraines. We each create a character and tell the story of two weeks of their life. We map out a calendar with the things they need to do, what they’d like to achieve. As you play you juggle these with the reality of unpredictable pain. We play out these difficulties, explore what they mean for someone’s life. We are offered a glimpse into what it’s like to experience something that disables us, that makes it harder for us to achieve what we’d like. While ostensibly about migraines, part of the game’s effectiveness is that it gives space for players to consider the thing blocking them from achieving everything they’d like. The calendar is central to the game, on it is mapped everything from work we need to do to friendships we need to maintain. Removing our ability to achieve everything forces us to consider what is important. We are able consider the characters’ relationship with the pieces of their life, and in in doing so reflect on our own.

It’s rare that a set of rules can make us feel a thing outside of play. They’re not meant to. Rulebooks are like recipes, simple directions to play a game. The feelings and emotions usually well up once gameplay begins. Dog Eat Dog’s rules are barbed. It’s a game about colonialism and its human consequences. We play as natives on an island being invaded by an advanced nation. We create both of these forces, the occupation and the natives together. We define traits of both—maybe the islanders sing songs together each morning, perhaps the occupation refuse to speak in any language that isn’t their own. Then we assume our roles. The richest play as the occupation, the rest are the natives. It is up to us to define what “the richest” means. Through the game we explore what it is like to live through colonization. Playing as natives we know that our fate is settled in one of two ways: we can either assimilate and accept the new ways or we can sacrifice our lives to resist. It is possible for the colonists to be defeated, but it is rare (usually the best we can hope for is to influence the occupiers’ values). The mechanics are weighted against the natives. The game is unfair. The occupiers can force their way into scenes, they can ignore the rolls of dice to force the outcomes they want.

The barbs in Dog Eat Dog’s rules serve a purpose. Most players will have had no experience of colonialism, will not have faced that kind of prejudice. The rule makers know we might be uncomfortable, that as the occupier we might hold back. By forcing us to discuss wealth, by unequally slanting the resolution mechanics, the game knocks us off balance. We are forced to let our guard down, to tell the right story.

 

Play unsafe

We have a ritual. Once a week, or a month, or whenever we can find time, we gather around a table and tell stories. We create a world and act characters within it. We share in each others’ creativity, our friends’ inputs blending with our own. Sometimes when we play we tell difficult stories, critique the world around us, use the game as a safe space to transgress.

There is magic in these stories, but we should be aware of their limits. It’s tempting to imbue games with power they don’t have, to oversell the power of empathy. We can learn compassion, but we shouldn’t mistake the glimpse of understanding we gain from playing a game for understanding someone’s life.

Games tell stories through the void, their structures create space where stories can grow. When that void is filled, it is filled by us. It is directed, but ultimately most of what we learn about is ourselves. They give us space to understand our own values and assumptions, and, where necessary, challenge them. ♦

(Image credit: Image of College of DuPage Sci-Fi/Fantasy Club hosting CODCON 2015 on Flickr.)

Playing It Is as If: A Perspective

Game designer Pippin Barr says, “I don’t make popular videogames. I make videogames to think about videogames.” Here he introduces two games that allow you to participate in the experience of playing them. Think about that.

Speculative play is a form of critical design and creation that prioritizes players’ own engagement with key questions around technology and human society through play. The speculation involved allows us to look into the future and consider where we’re headed and what it might look like once we’re there. The play allows us to tread lightly, even with humor, as we consider the path ahead.

The two scenarios posed in my games It Is as If You Were Playing Chess and It Is as If You Were Doing Work are speculative fictions that explore future possibilities for technology and how they might affect our lives. And yet the two pieces of software described are real and can be played right now in your web browser. They are examples of what my colleagues and I are calling speculative play, a design approach focused on creating playful software that explores possible alternate presents and futures through interactive experiences. In our projects, we are most interested in the expressivity of interaction itself and how this can be used to encourage curiosity, questioning, and exploration not just for us as researchers but for the players and users of the software. Speculative play allows us all not just to ask “what if?” but to play “It Is as If….”

Speculative play allows us to tread lightly, even with humor, as we consider the path ahead.

It Is as If You Were Playing Chess not only poses the idea of a chess game you merely pretend to be playing, but brings it to life and so allows you to participate in the experience itself. You really can ride a subway or bus, take out your cellphone, and load the game up in your browser. Hearing or reading about the game is one thing, but going through its motions yourself—raising an eyebrow or scratching your neck when instructed—places you in the alternate present the game comes from. With the game in your hands, it becomes possible to identify subtleties of experience, of context, and of emotion that might not easily come to you if you only read about the game. Likewise, It Is as If You Were Doing Work does not only suggest a potential future without human labor and the sense of value we draw from it, it positions you as an agent in that very world. As you click your mouse and tap on your keyboard, you are interacting with that future in ways that go beyond an intellectual understanding of its possibility: you are able to entertain how it might feel. You are able to experience the thrill of achievement associated with success in the game as well as the inevitable hollowness that the cumulative “achievements” lead you toward.

These two games are designed, most of all, for you to ask questions about possible futures or presents based on the interactions you carry out and experience. How does it feel to be released from the need to actively manage your responses? What does it mean when we willingly let go of our own agency with technology? To what extent do we perform with technology as a signal to others that we are useful, productive members of society? And how do and will these elements of technology transform us and our world? Rather than answer in words, these two games invite you to ask these questions of yourself, with the support of your own experience, however brief, in the worlds the games draw you into.

Look for more from Pippin Barr in February.

Playground of My Mind: A Memoir

Artist Julia Jacquette continues her reminiscence of the playgrounds of her youth (and her adulthood), and sees a link between the geometry of space and the natural flow of play.

 

 

The next part of Playground of My Mind will appear soon, stay tuned! See the previous installments here and here.

Play Digest: The World We Play In

In today’s climate of political strife, environmental crisis, and escalating international tensions, it makes sense that games offer an opportunity for escapism and fantasy. Increasingly, however, game designers and gamewrights are turning a responsive eye toward current events and drawing on them for inspiration. In this week’s link pack, we think about play globally.

Highly produced life-like games—and games based on historical events—are, of course, not new to the gaming world, but indie game companies and designers are using everything from world events to community activism to personal experiences to build meaningful, education, and empathy-building games.

The war in Syria has been rich fodder for distilling understanding about the migrant crisis. Path Out is an autobiographical game that follows its creator, artist Abdullah Karam, as he escapes Syria—dodging land mines and armed military, the game may look like a Japanese anime, but addresses not just the war and the refugee crisis, but also the heartbreaking decisions families have to make about who stays and who goes. Bury Me, My Love, is a beautifully rendered interactive fiction game that presents as a WhatsApp conversation between Nour—who has hopes of reaching Europe from her home in battle-riven Homs—and her husband Majd. The player communicates—in the role of Majd, who stays behind—with Nour as she makes her stressful way out of the country.

Here is an excellent—and often surprising—overview of Iran’s gaming industry and the role politics, sanctions, and the black market have on it.

Is Israel weak at gaming at the expense of augmented reality? There is an app that can be downloaded at an Israeli-sponsored exhibition that “disappears” the Al Aqsa Mosque from the landscape.

Climate change is also a point of interest for many designers. Patrick Jagoda of the University of Chicago will soon be launching an ARG called Overcast and Earth Primer is billed as a progressive earth sciences textbook textbook you can play with. Old Weather is a participatory game that will help scientists gather and catalyze historic Arctic weather data to better understand the impact of climate change.

Block by Block takes Minecraft as a base for empowering underprivileged communities to improve their surroundings.

Closer to home, studies show that returning veterans can find coping mechanisms through the avatars and gameplay mechanics of video gaming and VR.

The aforementioned Patrick Jagoda and his Game Changer Chicago Design Lab also develops community-focused civic-engagement games with teenage students in Chicago—many aimed at addressing sexual health awareness, including HIV testing, the relationship between reproductive health and socio-economic status, and sexual harassment.

Kurt Squire designs educational games that skill-build and motivate young people to take direct action in their communities.

Check in next week for a new roundup of the latest play news and stories.

(Photo credit: Image of Path Out gameplay, designed by Abdullah Karam, courtesy of the author.)

Propagandopoly: An Essay

Is it possible for the world’s playful introduction to capitalism to transmit a new set of values? Writer Naomi Russo looks at Monopoly as an ideological tool.

Monopoly is a game in which anyone from a child to a grandma can become a ruthless property mogul. Sold in over 114 countries, the game was first commercially marketed as a success story of the American dream—a game invented, its packaging claimed, by an unemployed man for whom it made millions during the Great Depression. As a potent worldwide symbol for capitalism it has become so well recognized that during the Occupy London protest in 2011, an oversized Monopoly board sat outside St Paul’s Cathedral, featuring a destitute Rich Uncle Pennybags and attributed by many to famous street artist Banksy. The message to everyone was clear.

The young woman who originally invented the game, however, had far different ideals. Elizabeth Magie was inspired by her passion for the anti-monopolist economic theories of politician Henry George, and her desire to teach them to others in a simple, compelling way led her to develop The Landlord’s Game. In the words of her 1903 patent application, the game was designed “not only to afford amusement to the players, but to illustrate to them how under the present or prevailing system of land tenure, the landlord has an advantage over other enterprises.”

[Elizabeth] Magie struggled to generate commercial interest in her game and told that it was “too political” because of its anti-capitalist message.

The game had two sets of rules. One was similar to today’s Monopoly, while the other rewarded everyone and avoided monopolies. The game was featured in The Review in 1902, where Magie was quoted as saying, “There are those who argue that it may be a dangerous thing to teach children how they may thus get the advantage of their fellows, but let me tell you there are no fairer-minded beings in the world than our own little American children. Watch them in their play and see how quick they are [ . . . ] to cry, ‘No fair!’”

Nonetheless, Magie struggled to generate commercial interest in her game. Parker Brothers told her it was “too political,” most likely because of its length, complexity, and anti-capitalist message. The game was fairly didactic, and its values were at odds with the American economic system, not to mention with Parker Brothers, a company that stood to benefit from the very practices that the game sought to censure.

Still, the game had popular appeal and quickly evolved beyond Magie’s control. Some changes were slight, such as adaptations of the street names to the players’ neighborhoods, but others were radical. Perhaps the biggest change was the reversal of Magie’s original intent: as players created their own boards and rules, they focused on the elements that were the most exciting for them, and for non-Georgists, those were accumulating capital, building a real-estate empire, and dominating the market. This shift was so marked that the game came to be known colloquially as “Monopoly.”

Communist countries were quick to ban the game as a bad influence.

Monopoly was also the name used by Charles Darrow, an unemployed salesman, when he took the game to Parker Brothers, pretending it was his original invention. His version, stripped of Georgist ideals, was already selling well, so Parker Brothers decided to take a chance on it, and Monopoly’s popularity spread quickly across American and European nations.

Communist countries were quick to ban the game as a bad influence that spread capitalist values. In Cuba not only was the game banned, but the existing boards were destroyed after a direct 1959 ruling by the newly empowered Fidel Castro. Some countries such as Hungary adopted the alternative route of providing a replacement. After banning the Hungarian version of the game, Kapitaly, they began to sell a low-budget board game known as Gazdálkodj Okosan! Loosely translated as either “Economize Wisely,” or “Budget Shrewdly,” the game was far more politically correct, encouraging hard work and exercise with didactic Chance cards chastising bad behavior. “You have dirtied the street! Pay 10 forints,” read one such not-so-subtle card.

But as Professor David Stark writes, a state-sponsored game couldn’t usurp Monopoly as simply as that. He tells the story of a Hungarian friend, writing, “You did not need to be a nine-year-old dissident to see that Monopoly was the more exciting game,” and going on to explain that in his friend’s home Gazdálkodj Okosan! boards were turned over and used to form the basis of a homemade Kapitaly. The result was something of a hybrid born from remembered rules of Kapitaly, the cards of Gazdálkodj Okosan!, and the innovations of Hungarian children themselves.

Monopoly spin-offs included a Hasidic version entitled Live Piously to Class Struggle, which aimed to show the superiority of Marxism.

The failure of Gazdálkodj Okosan! to impart its message has not discouraged others from creating their own politically motivated adaptations. In fact, the spin-offs by academics, artists, and others seem endless, from a Hasidic version entitled Live Piously that reinforces Satmar community values, to Class Struggle, which aims to show the superiority of Marxism. None of these adaptions have had anywhere near the success of Monopoly. Their small sales suggest that they mostly remain within their community rather than spreading their values more widely.

If games can transmit values, however, why did Magie’s version fail while Darrow’s succeeded? As Keith Devlin, the “NPR Math Guy,” told KQED ’s Mindshift, “Games are just simulators with an internal incentive structure.” And The Landlord’s Game lacks real incentive. As professors Dr. Mary Flanagan and Dr. Helen Nissenbaum discuss in Values at Play in Digital Games, students at Virginia Tech who played both versions found that while The Landlord’s Game made its point, Monopoly was much more fun.

So are users learning to be ruthless capitalists when they play Monopoly? Research fellow Dr. Marcus Carter says probably not, arguing that “despite the arguments and allegations of betrayal Monopoly is likely to cause in homes this Christmas, its morality is as unrealistic as that in Grand Theft Auto. Players are granted no moral choice whether or not to bankrupt their opponents and consequently, there is little moral involvement.”

A social psychologist found that Monopoly can be set up to simulate moral decision processes.

On the other hand, social psychologist Paul Piff believes that Monopoly might be able to be used to expose moral codes or ethics. Piff uses rigged games, in which the rules are changed to make one player unbeatably wealthy, to reveal what he believes his earlier research has shown: that wealthier people tend to lack empathy. His studies with rigged games showed that the person given all the advantages quickly became accustomed to them and played ruthlessly, feeling little to no regard for the other less fortunate player. His conclusions supported his continued work on the so-called “empathy gap,” but they also reveal two things about the game: first, that Monopoly can be set up to simulate moral decision processes, but second and more importantly, that those morals are affected by the rigged circumstances of the game. In other words, how people play isn’t necessarily how they act in the real world, but it is affected by the type of player the game sets them up to become. There is no evidence that they continue to act in such a fashion after they stop playing that role.

Flanagan contends that “Monopoly successfully imparts the values of competition, individual wealth, and exclusivity,” but it’s worth noting that these values weren’t a critique of the society in which the game evolved, nor of our society today, but rather a reflection of it. This makes it hard to know whether Monopoly really encourages such values, or simply represents the values its players already have.

So can games like Monopoly work to transmit new values? The more than 200 versions would seem to suggest that many believe so. But the lesson from the many adaptations that have failed to catch on, and from Magie’s original game, is clear: a game can be used to spread a message, but for it to reach beyond a limited target audience, first and foremost, it must be fun. ♦

 

“Propagandopoly” originally appeared in Works That Work, No 9. Photo credit: Courtesy of Thomas Forsyth, LandlordsGame.info.

loading...
Bitnami