If you define it by its gameplay, The Beginner's
Guide doesn't really have any rules. You know, it's more in the realm of interactive fiction
than objective based gameplay. But if you define it by its critical reception, the first
rule of The Beginner's Guide is that you do not talk about The Beginner's Guide. It's: "a game that doesn't want to be written about", according to Laura Hudson's article, or, as
game designer Liz England puts it, it "resists interpretation - by digging for meaning, we’re
perilously close to committing its cardinal sin." It instils an uncomfortable self-consciousness
in anyone who attempts to look at it for too long - making any inquiring audience uniquely
aware of where they're positioning themselves - in relation to the game, it's narrative
and even, thanks to the game's own developer Davey Wreden's personal introduction and narration... [audio: Davey Wreden] "Hi there, thank you very much for playing The Beginner's Guide." to the developer.
As "Davey" offers, or maybe more accurately imposes, his interpretive voice on this series
of short experimental games supposedly created by his estranged friend Coda, we're increasingly
dragged into a maze of authorial intent and creative liberty as well as entitlement and
consent. And when it comes to the issue of imposing your interpretation on things some
of us might have more to worry about than others, but whether you consider your role
to be a player, a fan, an academic, a critic, a friend - the game ignites this little flame
of worry: is this about me?! Developer Robert Yang even speculated that
they may be the mysterious Coda, although admittedly as a rhetorical device rather than
a serious consideration - a way of, as they said, bringing their own shit to the table.
But as much as I might think I hear the game tutting admonishingly at me for trying to
interpret it's meaning, and then for that tutting to only grow ever louder as I realise
that to even think that is itself an interpretation [clang] no… you're not going to
trap me that easily. It is far too early in the video for a performative breakdown. I'm
standing on the shoulders of every other writer's personal crisis with this game and… *sigh*
no one needs another one. Because I actually don't feel like I need
to tread too carefully with The Beginner's Guide. After all, it’s just a game. But
what makes this game so slippery are the questions it repeatedly raises around what is and isn't
accessible and acceptable when we're bringing our own shit to the table. [Voice: "Davey"] "I want us to see past the games themselves." "I want to get to know who this human being
really is." "And that’s exactly what we’re going to
do here." Stripped down to their most basic formula,
games are about either allowing or denying access. You do good, you get more game. You do bad, and you may never get past level 4 of Geometry Dash… and by you
I mean me. And while access to other media may be limited by availability or because
it's so long or difficult, it's not like a book is going to find your reading performance
lacking and be like [slam shut] - no! No more book for you! So the relationship between player and game can be thought of as playfully antagonistic
- because, even when games might deny us access, that doesn't mean we can't force our way in.
From watching lets plays to creating modified versions of a game, the ability to break in
and root around is unique to the construction of video games, allowing us to go places we
were never meant to go, see things we were never intended to see, even if just vicariously.
There are even games built around this function. Jazztronauts is a mod of Garry's Mod, which
is itself a mod of Half Life 2, and in it you break into the maps and levels of other
games, steal their props and obviously sell them to your interdimensional cat overlords.
You can even steal walls and floors and when missing assets return error messages, you
can steal those too. What feels transgressive here is taking control of something we were
supposed to be subservient to, but at what point does this gratuitous freedom begin to
feel hollow? Part of what makes Jazztranouts feel transgressive is that, despite being
this ungoverned utopia where our greedy thieving hearts can frolic with abandon, it's actually
one of the most inaccessible games to even try to play. I mean, I haven't played it.
You need to install not only the game and its content packs, but also Garry's mod and
realistically a number of Source Engine games like Half-Life 2, Portal, Counter Strike…
I don't have any of those things. And sure I could get them, but… eh. Even if you have
the time, money or resources to get something working, that's that accessibility barrier
we can face in almost any aspect of life: effort. But from the opening of The Beginner's Guide, Davey is committed to making Coda's games
accessible to us. Not only in terms of sharing them and explaining them, but also in removing
any friction from the experience. Anything that we might have found boring or difficult,
Davey modifies the game so we can just skip past it. Like this prison cell that's supposed
to keep you trapped for an hour? Nah. Maybe you think that if you haven't virtually
sat in that prison cell for an hour then, you haven't only cheated the game, you've
cheated… yourself. But I think, in practice, most of us were relieved. And even though
knowing isn't the same as experiencing, you could argue that, at least in the case of
video games, they're both legitimate modes of interaction. Robert Yang, again, who you
may remember as 'not Coda', wrote 'not a manifesto' on games as conceptual or performance art,
saying that: "For the vast majority of the world, my games live as thought experiments
or imagined games," and that "the most important thing about a game" is that "you can think
about it." Which positions this hypothetical experience as, not equal to, but still equally
valid as the played experience. But the issue with this prison door, these
modifications Davey makes to the games - what he deems important and unimportant to our
experience and his interpretation - is the implication it might have on broader discourse.
Like, skipping over or modifying things as is convenient to us is maybe where those of
us who are writing off the back of other people's work can start to feel so attacked right now.
And as Davey's narration in The Beginner's Guide reveals that, while he's supposedly
talking about these games he's only really thinking about himself, it's only natural
that anyone talking about the Beginner's Guide will be cautious of committing this 'cardinal
sin'. Like the energy we're all bringing here is Robert A. Heinlein's assessment of writing,
that it's: "not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash
your hands afterwards." But I don't think analysis needs to be a conclusive
and didactic account of what something 'really means'. This isn't about the artist's intentions,
this is about me ransacking their work for tantalising entry points into wider social
and philosophical conversations and then selling them to my interdimensional cat overlords!
We're all aware of this! And it's a practice that I think is either a useful adventure
in anthropology or, at worst, for the lolz. Like, it's a game, right? It’s harmless. But if that's true, why do I still feel so uncomfortable. Something The Beginner's Guide demonstrates
frighteningly well is that you can think you're in one place, and suddenly find you're someplace
else. Like whenever I talk about games I get a lot more complaints about spoilers than
I do on videos about other media. I assume, because of a comparative lack of essay writing
on games, many click these videos mistaking them for reviews. If someone's in a 'review'
mindset it might not immediately occur to them that a video on The Beginner's Guide
might contain spoilers for The Beginner's Guide so… spoiler alert: it does.
Because we likely assume what we're told at the start of the game is true. That this is
game designer Davey Wreden, creator of the Stanley Parable, and that these games we're
introduced to were made by his friend Coda. But at some point something starts to feel
off, and probably before the end of the game you realise that, despite sharing his name
and voice, 'Davey' is not Davey Wreden, these aren't his friend's games, that we're not
experiencing a technical demonstration but a work of fiction. And it uses the framework
of game design and analysis to discuss a much more destructive and harmful kind of imposition,
moving from academic and creative curiosity to personal violation.
What makes us uncomfortable is that we're standing in the doorway of what's acceptable
and unacceptable, and suddenly we can't quite be sure which side of the door we're on. Because Davey's commitment to accessibility
goes beyond the negation of effort and boredom. He personally welcomes players to games that
were seemingly never intended for public release and even offers his email address. [Voice: "Davey] "You can email me at D A V E Y W R E D E N at gmail.com" But this
unfailing openness points to a belief that everything and everyone should be accessible
– always. Throughout the game, Davey picks at the boundary between the creator and their
work, and even if we conclude that they are of course not one and the same, because Davey
so often conflates and confuses the two, breaking into a game can begin to feel like breaking
into a person. The trailer for the game is literally logging into a computer and rifling
through someone else's hard drive, and, despite the nonchalant manner in which it's presented,
there's no way that isn't a violation of privacy. The relationship that most immediately comes
to mind here is that of the artist and their audience, or fans - particularly the entitlement
fans might feel towards creative works and the people who make them. Laura Hudson commented
that there's: "…a sense that Coda's games are neither as accessible or transparent as
[Davey] would prefer, as though something owed has not quite been delivered." And so
Davey continues to demand more of these games, and more of Coda. [Voice: Davey"] "I’d like this collection
to reach him, to maybe encourage him to start creating again. And if the people like you
who play this also happen to find his work interesting then I’m sure it’ll just send that much stronger of a message of encouragement to Coda" Wanting the games to be accessible, as in playable or understandable, gives way to Davey's
desire for Coda to be accessible. Hypothetically speaking, Diana Fuss writes that "every identification
involves a degree of symbolic violence, a measure of temporary mastery and possession."
But extreme fandom holds mastery and possession at its core, what Roisin Kiberd calls "an
untenable love which demands control." And I think our tendency to make ourselves the
protagonist of not only our own story but also everyone else's leads many an audience
to impose their own desires on both creative works and the people behind them - even under
the guise of encouragement. But this tendency isn't limited to the impersonal
dynamic of artist and audience. After all, Davey and Coda were friends - and even with
the ever-creeping influence of the parasocial forever blurring the line between friend and
stranger, a relationship doesn't have to be one sided to be mediated in some way. Davey admits to using Coda's games as a kind of intimacy shortcut: [Voice: "Davey"] "That I could just play someone's game and see the voices in their head and get to know them better and have to do less of the messy
in person socialising. I could just get to know you through your work." Only it’s maybe
more of the "straying from the path, no I swear it's just through these trees, have
we passed this rock before?" kind of shortcut. Because Davey ends up making a lot of assumptions
about Coda's intentions and mental state that we learn were inaccurate projections. And
building imagined narratives around other people's actions doesn't require something
as involved as them making games you can play. I think in general humans' affinity for storytelling
means we can construct these same narratives from the most mundane interactions, the amateur
sleuths of our own relationships. But the thing with self-constructed stories is that
it's hard not to make yourself the lead, even when you know you shouldn't. Davey centres himself in Coda's life right up to the end of the game: [Voice: "Davey"] "I'm the reason you stopped making
games, aren't I?" Even though we don't actually know that Coda did stop making games, only
that he stopped showing them to Davey. But for Davey, if he's been forced out of the
narrative, that must mean the story's over, because he can't imagine a story continuing
without him. It's hard to imagine the stories that exist
without us - even if, at least intellectually, we all know they do. Even Davey knows. His
interpretation of the fifth game, of discovering the hidden labyrinth behind this level's walls,
is essentially that very concept: [Voice: Davey"] "I think the point is the same, it’s that most of the time you don't get to know what you're missing, or even that you're missing anything…" Wow what a neat idea... that doesn't have any practical application for my life at all! In this New York Times article, now also available as a meme, Tim Kreider wrote that: "There’s
something existentially alarming about finding out how little room we occupy, and how little
allegiance we command, in other people’s heads." Because there's a difference between
knowing something, like intellectually, and KNOWING something, emotionally - really feeling
and understanding it. Metaphorically, this is the gap between the idea of waiting an
hour for a door to open and the experience of waiting an hour for a door to open. Two
things that might be equally valid in the sandpit of philosophy but grow further and
further apart if we think about that concept practically. Like of course we know that not
everyone will always view our actions favourably, but when someone accidently hits reply rather
than forward on an email that details their exact exasperation and distain over your rented
herd of goats, that's when you really know. We know there are things that aren't for us
but The Beginner's Guide can really make you feel it. The seventh game sees the return
of a puzzle Davey solved for us previously - so when asked by the characters on the other
side of the puzzle door how I solved it, the most honest response was that I didn't, "someone
else let me in" - and suddenly I felt like I was somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. A
lot of Coda's games require cheating to progress, whether it's not keeping your eyes closed
when you're told to or Davey opening a door that is impossible for us to open as a player.
The Beginner's Guide repeatedly presents us with boundaries we're asked not to cross.
So, as Davey asks regarding the hidden labyrinth: [Voice: "Davey"] "if you're role here is not to understand
then what is it?" I think it's the idea of understanding that
can be approached differently to how Davey presents it. Davey's model of understanding
is all about knowing, about puzzles and solutions, about unlimited access. But understanding
is also about respect, that maybe sometimes our role is to respect that which we cannot
know. 'We Are Here Because of Those That Are Not' is an interactive artwork by Danielle Braithwaite-Shirley, a digital archive of black trans history which asks us to be honest
with the archive - meaning that whatever lies behind the options for black or trans people,
is not for me to know as a white cis person - it's not for me to take. Respecting that
boundary isn't just about content in a video game but reflects the struggle black trans
people face in establishing their own voices in a system that continues to erase them - encouraging
us to speak up for marginalised communities without talking over them. For white
cis people, understanding is not about accessing everything the game has to offer, but respecting
what is asked of us. And the Beginner's Guide also works to create
the experience of how it feels to not be able to speak for yourself. The way Davey drags
us through these games doesn't just negate our effort but also our agency. In the fourth
game, Davey does allow you to speed through this decelerated climb but if you choose not
to you'll still be moving just as slowly when you reach the top - so here I am crawling
around the room like a sucker, trying to read this when… Damn it, Davey! But through Davey's actions, we also witness loss of control, not as the result of someone
else, but from a more abstract internal force - fear, love, ambition. Davey can begin to
feel like that subconscious part of the self, giving a voice to those intrusive thoughts.
In one way, he embodies that pressure to be accessible and available - how it applies
not only to how we might demand too much of someone else, but also the obligation we might
feel to give too much of ourselves. We can read this in the context it's presented in,
of video game development or any creative work. In the introduction to his collection
of essays 'Tell Them I Said No', Martin Herbert writes: "A big part of the artist's role now…
is showing up to self-market, being present. On all channels, ideally… all gates open."
But I don't think this is unique to artists, when it comes to how much we want to offer
of ourselves, everyone can stand to know their limits, even when upholding those boundaries
isn't going to be easy. As artist Marianna Simnett said of fellow artist Julia Phillips:
"It’s powerful and no doubt hard work to be the one saying no all the time.” And
if Davey has an internal voice, another Davey style narrator of his own actions, I think
that voice is defined by a deep sense of self-loathing. That's his abstract internal force. And it's
just as important and just as difficult to say no to those forces too. [Voice: "Davey"] " I needed to see myself in someone else. I needed to be someone other than me." "I'm afraid that I did something really stupid
because I don't like myself." I think it's natural to want to get things
right with an interpretation, to do things well, to hold up your experience to the game,
saying: "Is this it? Does this please you?" And for the game to say: "yes, my child. You
are a Good Player™." But The Beginner's Guide couldn't make this more difficult. It presents us with material ripe for analysis and then when we try to analyse it it seems
to say "no, bad audience!" But - and, this isn't the first time I've admired our
somehow very human need to make meaning from things - it's honestly adorable - as much
as this game isn't about me, this video isn't really about you, game. In writing about his
meme-ification, Timothy Kreider (the goat herd guy) - quoted cartoonist Lynda Barry
in saying: "it’s the artist’s job to bring 50% to a work of art; the audience supplies
the other 50%." But the funny thing is, maybe us games writers
were so busy bringing our own shit to the table that while we were saying 'this isn't
about us' we missed the fact that it maybe really isn't about us - or at least, the story
doesn't end with us. It's not necessarily about game interpretation but is just partly
using that as a lens through which to explore personal relationships and broader impulses. As a way of bringing their own shit to th… ok I've used that phrase
too much now. But seeing yourself reflected in
something is equally an opportunity for self-reflection, and, playing The Beginner's Guide, I don't
think we can help but feel self-conscious. Whether it's for how we play games, how we
talk about art, or how we treat the people we know and don't know. The awkwardness with
which everyone talks about the game demonstrates how we're encouraged to reassess our behaviour,
the effect it might be having on other people or even ourselves. And ultimately, I think the game gets us to keep asking a really important question: [sparks] Should I be doing this? [Music: Glad Rags - U Think U]
"You think you know me, you don't know me well at all." ("You don't know me")
"You think you know me, you don't know me well.." "At all! At all!" "You don't know me.
You don't know me"
