Computer games (game software) have been around at least since A. S. Douglas programmed a tic-tac-toe game for his doctoral dissertation in Computer Human Interaction at Cambridge in 1952. And after more than two decades of sporadic academic writing focused on computer games, some sort of field seems to be forming, championed by international efforts such as the Digital Games Research Association. But what field? And for what purpose? There have been games for eons, as long as there have been mammals, possibly longer, so why start a new discipline or field at this point? Who needs it?

To answer these questions, we must first consider the many empirical roles games play in research, as well as in cultures and societies. Where are games already studied, and why? What games? There are already several academic traditions of game study:

• Game theory, a branch of mathematics and economics that is really not about (entertainment) games at all, but competitive situations in general;
• Play research, a tradition focused on understanding childrenʼs play;
• Gaming and Simulation, an experimental field that explores and crates games for learning and training purposes;
• Ludomania research, the clinical treatment of gambling addicts;
• Board game studies, the historical study of board games and their evolution;
• Philosophy of Sport, the philosophical investigation of physical sports, often associated with university athletics programs.

And since 2001, computer game studies:

• Game ontology (ludology);
• Game criticism & history;
• Serious games (learning games, persuasive games, advergaming);
• Game sociology, economics, and ethnography;
• Game design theory;
• Game computer science (AI, visualization, content management, etc.).

Among these six top fields, computer game studies seems the most varied and interdisciplinary. The six sectors of computer game studies could easily be expanded to more sub-fields, such as the study of game markets and marketing, the study of game production, the study of online game management, the study of cybersports, and transmedia game migrations.

Given this fragmented and tentative picture, it seems both very difficult and very pretentious to use the term “game studies” in a focused, inclusive, and productive way. How can there be one field of game studies? What impudence!

Indeed, with such a wealth of diverse disciplines involved, how can there be a center, or consensus? Will computer scientists working on game design ever want to talk to cultural critics who are examining the ideological significance of game iconography? Are we naïve to think that there will ever be bridges among the technological, aesthetic, and ethnographic game research traditions? And if a common ground can be reached, will it prove productive and useful, or simply too much trouble? Why not leave well enough alone, and let researches go on, peacefully, in their respective labs, centers, groups, and departments? The gargantuan effort required to make unaligned disciplines work together in a world where even academic units such as English departments are divided between linguists and literary scholars who rarely talk to each other (let alone cooperate in their research) might seem unrealistic and a big waste of time.

And yet, there seems considerable potential benefit from a successful merger between computer game research disciplines. The main reason is games themselves, which are clearly interdisciplinary in their genesis. A computer game is the complex result of technological, aesthetic, and user-oriented knowledge and applied research. If game developers have to master these three very diverse fields in order to produce successful games, how can a theorist of games hope to be successful without a similarly interdisciplinary approach? Games are research objects that call out for interdisciplinarity, but this trinity of approaches can only come to pass after considerable intradisciplinary maturation and diplomacy. Working together takes mutual trust and respect, and these are not automatically present at the outset, even if there may be good will and a willingness to listen.

More than anything else, cooperation among humanists, social scientists, and technologists demands common goals. But what would these be? Traditionally, humanists focus on individual artistic achievement, while social scientists focus on collective patterns, and technologists on producing more efficient and advanced machinery. When looking at a complex, “massively” multiplayer game such as World of Warcraft (2004), a humanist might see a vast depiction of a rich fantasy world, while a social scientist might see a “third place” for structured social interaction. A computer scientist would likely see software components such as 3D renderers, network protocols, back-end database scripts, and non-player character AI—all intricately working together against the strains of multiple user inputs. None of these three scholars would see the same things, and therefore might not have anything relevant to say to each other.

Inevitably, the only powerful nexus among these diverse approaches then becomes design. Humanists, technologists, and social scientists come together through a common interest in outstanding design. Game design will have to unite the insights from social science, technology, and art, and so becomes the overruling discipline whereby all the other approaches are measured. The value of technology, social theory, and aesthetics can be measured through the lens of design, because it is closest to the practice itself. However, this is problematical for a number or reasons.

For one thing, design theory is quite underdeveloped compared to the other traditions. There is a clear danger that commercial success and sales numbers will dominate the discourse, to the detriment of scholarly values and strength of argument. In the production world, the value system is based on practical achievement. You are only as good as your last product. “Show me the money!” trumps theoretical insight every time. While this regime is rational in the production studios, it does not work well in the academic world. Also, academic design will never compete with commercial design, simply because the material conditions (budget, talent, etc.) are so unequal. At best, university research labs can hope to become subcontracting deliverers of specialized components, such as a rendering optimization here and a pathfinding algorithm there.

Even so, from the industrial point of view, the academic worldʼs best value for the industry lies in our ability to train workers, so that industry wonʼt have to. It is extremely expensive to run a competitive business with no prior educational options for your specialist staff—ultimately, you have to educate them yourself, sometimes from scratch, while they are busy working on your cutting-edge project. This is risky, inefficient, and frustrating for all involved. A game study school that can teach the craft of game-making and filter the best students from the rest, means money saved and more projects delivered for game companies.

But do we need game studies for that? What is wrong with art schools, computer science schools, and the odd creative writing school? Again, the key is interdisciplinarity; the game industry is based on teamwork, and workers must be able to communicate ideas across disciplinary boundaries and traditions. A game study school that accepts students with different talents and backgrounds and lets them work in teams will have lifted a great burden from the industry.

The industry might even benefit in other ways, too. Today, the stark contrast between the innovative and the conservative aspects of games are glaring. Games have vastly improved artwork and graphics, immensely impressive physical simulation engines, and highly efficient back-end server solutions capable of handling thousands of concurrent users. At the same time, gameplay structures are the same as two decades ago. While the rubber is superior and the spokes definitively more shiny, the shape of the wheel is basically unchanged. Take Half-Life 2 (2004), for example: it is a graphically and technically superb game, yet sports the same linear corridors as Warren Robinettʼs graphical Adventure game from 1978. World of Warcraft (2004) is little more than a graphical version of Richard Bartle and Roy Trubshawʼs text-based Multi-User Dungeon from 1979-80.

While the technical and graphical development of the last two decades is nothing short of astounding, gameplay design seems locked into a certain number of simple variants: the linear adventure exploration game; the Dungeons and Dragons-inspired role-playing game; the chess-like, real-time, or turn-based strategy games; and the multiplayer action-shootʼem ups, originally found in Steve Russell et.al.ʼs SpaceWar! (1961-2).

The holy grail of large parts of the game industry, including many prominent game designers, is to combine gameplay and storytelling, and make games that give the player the feeling of being the main character in a story: “a game that has the drama of theater and the narrative complexity and emotional impact of a novel, but still has all the things a game gives you: making your own path, never being the same game twice” (Barker). This dream has surfaced many times in the history of computer games, often with marketing claims of this or that “gameʼs revolutionary approach to storytelling” (Gettys). Unfortunately, these efforts all fall miserably short of the hype, for one reason or another. Usually, to work as a believable “interactive story,” a game has to contain characters that will respond intelligently to the playerʼs input, and this requires a level of artificial intelligence that does not yet exist. Hence, the stories that can indeed be “told” by games are limited to simple labyrinth tales, where the hero must conquer a hostile landscape and non-speaking animalistic enemies. Bring in a few non-hostile characters, and the differences from novels and plays become striking and embarrassing. The belief that games will behave as novels and plays without believable human characters seems singularly naïve, and yet it continues to dominate the game industry and new generations of game designers. While skeptical humanists trained in narratology and the history of games might not come up with a constructive alternative solution, they may still help game developers realize the nature of the literary/dramatic arts and their limits when transformed into a dynamic media format.

So, instead of merely becoming a source of useful workers, game studies could serve as an archive of game concepts and designs, and a place for critical feedback. Game studies might also be the place where students could be allowed to experiment and think “outside the box” at no extra cost to the industry.

More important than helping the industry, of course, would be game studiesʼ responsibility to the public itself. For years, computer games have been vilified as low culture trash—a waste of time at best, and a source of criminal and sociopathic behavior at worst. Young game players have felt the unjustified disdain of their elders, and while there are good and bad games, there are just as many good and bad books. The culturally unopposed, dominant idea that all games are bad places an unhealthy burden on the young mind. The joys of gameplay should be recognized as legitimate, on par with sports, reading novels or watching movies. However, such recognition takes a culturally informed public, trained in the critical assessment of game quality by game scholars and academically-educated game critics.

A third way game studies could prove itself useful is by providing non-commercial game developers free alternatives to todayʼs expensive middleware solutions. The cost of game-making tools makes professional game design unreachable for small developers with limited funding and programming talent. A free game development toolset and open source game platform developed collectively by academic game researchers and game studies departments would provide artists, educators, researchers, and hobbyists with the possibility of making high-quality games and game-based applications for markets and audiences that the mainstream game industry is unable to reach. Such games would most likely not compete with the big productions for revenues or popularity, but they would empower the public and unleash creative forces that are sorely needed, especially in an age when games have been changed from the free activities of pre-computer days to subscriber-based services or shrink-wrapped products.

Game studies has a tough balancing act coming up. On the one hand it must work out a useful relationship with a hyper-commercial industry, without sacrificing the independent status and credibility of academic research. On the other hand, it must negotiate the disciplinary differences and divergent goals of the academy. How can everyone be happy with the end result? Will some groups feel excluded? Probably, but the alternative, that game studies remains fragmented over a large number of non-communicating disciplines, seems far less productive. A critical branch that does not speak with the creative branch, or does not even speak the same language, would simply be a wasted opportunity. Film studies, rightly or wrongly, has many times been singled out as the chief example of such a non-speaking non-relationship. However, if we instead look to drama and theatre studies, or to literary studies, we find a rich tradition of communication, cooperation, training, influence, and mutual benefit between academy and industry, the critical and the creative. This tradition shows that it is indeed possible, and also desirable, to play together.

Works Cited:

Barker, Clive. “Clive Barker Interview.” GameSpy (December 2000). 19 Feb. 2005. <http://archive.gamespy.com/interviews/december00/clive/in dex2.htm>.
Gettys, Jim W. “Choose Your Own Destiny.” Xbox.com. 19 Feb. 2005. <http:// www.xbox.com/en-us/fable/spotlight.htm>.