“Can video games be art?” is one of those questions that has been discussed to death. Of course, the problem domain of defining art is a notoriously snare-laden landscape. But by almost any definition, it is clear from nearly the beginning of the game Braid that it is a conscious attempt to argue the case that video games can be art. At the very least, it is aesthetically compelling, with strongly cohesive sprites, backgrounds, music, and animations. But I would argue that it is more than just aesthetically interesting, and that it passes muster as a piece of art by almost any definition.

But more than that, the art direction reflects the themes and mood of the story, to say nothing of the symbolism encoded in the art. And the story emerges from and is intertwined with the gameplay. As Phil of The Nintendo Project recently observed:

[In Braid,] the story extends from the gameplay. It’s a story about the passage of time, memory, and regret, but all of the aspects of the story are simply thematic meditations on things about the gameplay. When the game introduces time-locked objects, the story introduces the idea of mistakes that cannot be undone. When it introduces the ability to have a shadow Tim carry out one set of actions while Tim carries out another, it introduces the idea of regret for lives unlived.

This is something that no other game in my memory has ever done. Coupling the gameplay not just to the content of the story (such as it is), but with the emotional and psychological themes of the game. Now, every game, however devoid of life, contains emotional and psychological themes. Everything we interact with does, because our minds are founded, by definition, in psychology. We approach the world by interpreting it, even if we do it on an unconscious level. Even pong can be discussed in terms of boundaries, liminal spaces, conflict, and the repetition of actions for an arbitrary and meaningless rewards.

However, games like Braid are different. They are written purposefully to draw out certain themes. They are intended to have emotive content rather than simply being circumscribed by our emotional reactions to them. Another insight of Phil’s, and the topic I really want to talk about with Braid, is this:

The thing about Braid that I think a lot of people miss, despite it probably being the most important thing about the game, is that it is one of an increasing number of games to operate in a lyrical mode as opposed to an epic mode. Implicit in this, of course, is the idea that the nearest textual medium to video games is poetry. And so Braid, instead of telling a narrative story about rescuing a princess, instead offers an extended poem in which video game mechanics, growing up, the apocalypse, and love are all intertwined into a… well… braid.

So, let’s start with something pretty basic. Phil is discussing here a dichotomy between poetry and narrative. Now, obviously he doesn’t mean poetry as an art form generally – after all, narrative poems certainly exist. Rather, what we’re talking about is a difference between two modes of writing – that is, two different things you can do with the written word. You can tell a straightforward story in which the narrative flows directly – in this mode, regardless of whether your story is allegorical or contains deeper meanings and metaphors, there is a surface level of actions that are related in some basic order. This mode, which I will call the ‘narrative mode’ for simplicity, is how most stories are told.

Another mode, though, and one that is associated in many people’s minds with poetry in general, is what Phil calls a ‘lyrical mode’. Narrative story is thrown out in favor of suggestive imagery and implicit connections. It is harder to tell a story in this mode, because we think of stories as following a single cause-and-effect sequence that we call its narrative. However, stories can be told like this, and Braid does so.

The result is a story that, while clearly a story, doesn’t have a single narrative in it. There are certainly many interpretations of Braid, but the only one I’ve seen that does them justice is the one quoted above. The story is not ‘a metaphor for the development of the nuclear bomb’, as one interpreter suggests. The development of the nuclear bomb is certainly a clear theme, but it is not the one correct interpretation of the story. Rather, there are many interpretations of the story that are all true, simultaneously. And the writer probably didn’t intend for all of them to be there – the interesting thing about writing in the lyrical mode is that you can make connections, while writing, that you weren’t consciously aware of, and that others can make connections from the symbols you use that you didn’t intend. It is a way of using language (and art, and music) that would seem messy to anyone who insists that a sentence only have one correct meaning, but the result is a beautiful and moving piece of art about regret, love, and the inevitability of loss.

Final Score: Yes

It seemed strange that a character in the game sounded so much like my wife. Also, my character had just looked at her watch, and it was way after 1. And there wasn’t anyone else in the room.

“Did you hear me?”

The surround sound on this game is great, too. It sounds like that voice is coming from right behind me. I turn my character around, but don’t see anything. Kinda creepy.

Then it dawns on me, and I press Start, and turn around.

This is the effect Heavy Rain has on me. The story in this game is that gripping, compelling. It propels you forward naturally, the pacing keeping you engaged without overwhelming. This game has the highest production quality of any game I can recall playing. I’ve seen the phrase interactive movie thrown around here and there over the years, but Heavy Rain turns that on its head; it is not a movie; it is doing things with storytelling that a movie can’t do, for a number of reasons. It’s not a visual novel either, because it is far more than a series of cinematic sequences with decision points. Rather, we have something entirely new here, and it is an ambitious and compelling idea.

I have been known to opine that a great piece of art is one that plays to the strengths of its medium. A great novel uses the written word to convey something that can only be conveyed with writing. Certain combinations of words have great effect on the reader, in a way that the same scene in a movie might miss entirely. Literature has the advantage of narration; a voice that can drive the story in ways that are unique to the form, and great stories capitalize on this.

A great movie, on the other hand, uses the fact that it is a visual medium to convey powerful emotional content that would feel flat in writing. Lighting, facial expression, and tone of voice can be evocative in a movie like they never could in writing. Plays have their own framework, and they are at their best when they exploit this fact. Ditto music, painting, and other artistic forms.

Heavy Rain is the first game that I have encountered that takes this approach with a video game. It is treating the game as a work of art, and not simply an entertaining way to kill time. Sure, other games have stories and beautifully rendered scenery. They have characters that portray emotion, sometimes. But Heavy Rain uses the canvas of video games to tell a story in a unique way; you couldn’t copy this story to movie or novel form without losing, or at least changing, something important.

Traditional games, even ones with great stories, are hampered by a number of problems. One is the tendency for this pattern to emerge:

1. Plot (cutscene, dialogue tree, etc)
2. Gameplay (random battles, shooting bad guys)
3. Goto 1.

In Heavy Rain, the plot and gameplay are intertwined inextricably, and the gameplay doesn’t devolve into the usual video game tropes of, well, killing Bad Guys. It’s more nuanced than that, and you observe a story unfolding in which your actions have real consequences, both minor and major, and in both the short and long term.

It’s been obvious to me for a long time that video games could potentially be art, evoke a broad range of real human emotion in the player, and deal with deep themes without resorting to ham-fisted tropes or dulling the emotional experience with tons of unrelated gameplay between evocative scenes. Heavy Rain is the first time I’ve seen this potential realized.