For four decades, the adventure game genre has been practically synonymous with “story-driven” video games. In the early 1980s, Infocom was trading in thought-provoking, experimental text-only narratives while pioneering role-playing game series like Ultima and Wizardry were still fumbling with the basics. (We won’t even talk about contemporary narrative in other genres.) By the 1990s, non-adventure games had become more competitive in the storytelling sphere, but companies like Sierra and LucasArts were still where gamers went when they wanted “pure” interactive narrative that eschewed complex combat mechanics or action sequences.

Times have changed. The adventure game genre is still around, but is no longer a dominant industry force. Now even first-person shooters and other action games are marketed with a strong emphasis on story.

What hasn’t changed is the way story and gameplay are separated in most games. We continue to see games structured as a sequence of story moments broken up by gameplay challenges (or vice-versa), whether those challenges are comprised of elaborate combat systems, exploration and discovery, or object interaction puzzles. Sometimes the line between story and gameplay is perfectly blurred or the transition made seamless; more often, it’s stark.

In traditional media, conventional wisdom says that every element of a narrative piece (whether a line of dialogue or the color palette of a theater set) should advance a story’s plot, characters, or themes in some way. It’s a high aspiration and, I think, a worthy one. It’s something that games can aspire to, as well, in how they craft their challenge-based gameplay.

Another way to look at how well gameplay integrates into narrative is to ask, “If I were to adapt this game’s story to another medium, or recount the story to a friend, would I mention this challenge? Or would I skip over that part altogether#8221;

As a genre that, broadly speaking, aims to provide extremely high density story delivery, adventure games make for interesting examples in gameplay integration. That is, adventure games often pride themselves on eschewing extraneous, repetitive gameplay in favor of narratively integrated challenges; but even within adventure games, some challenges suit the narrative far better than others.

Let’s look at a few examples of traditional adventure game puzzles and see what we can learn:

The Longest Journey – Rubber Duck. The duck puzzle from The Longest Journey (Funcom, 1999) has been examined and excoriated more than once. It’s notable not only for its artificiality but because it’s a particularly bad fit in a game that makes a real effort at maintaining a consistent tone to the larger narrative.

I won’t break down the puzzle in detail (the preceding links do so thoroughly). Suffice it to say that The Longest Journey‘s protagonist sets out retrieve a key from an electrified subway track. Her motivation for acquiring the key is poorly established, at best–it unlocks a fuse box she wants access to (in order to create a diversion), though she has no way of knowing this–and her method involves building an elaborate contraption using, in part, a rubber duck.

But forget the overcomplicated solution to the puzzle–that’s absurd on its surface. More importantly for our purposes, what does retrieving the key have to do with the larger narrative? Does it advance character or theme? Would you choose to show it in your film or novel adaptation of the story?

Does it even make sense within the context of the game world? Are there simpler or more character-appropriate ways to accomplish the same goal? This is a less obvious trap than the sheer complexity of the puzzle–how many game protagonists go to elaborate lengths to move crates, murder foes, or retrieve that one special object when buying a ladder, making a phone call, or getting a replacement special object would be at least as simple?

Loom – Dyeing Sheep. Loom (Lucasfilm Games, 1990) fits into a subtradition of adventure games in which the primary game mechanic represents some flexible “power” on the part of the protagonist, and where creative use of this power is valued above object interaction puzzles (of the “use chewing gum on leaky pipe” variety). In Loom, the power is an array of magic spells the player character learns over the course of the game; I view Loom as a successor to games like Enchanter (Infocom, 1983) (another game of spellcasting) and predecessor to adventures like Life is Strange (Dontnod Entertainment, 2015) (in which the protagonist manipulates time itself to solve troubles).

By centering both narrative and gameplay on a single concept (spellcasting, time manipulation, etc.), producing gameplay challenges that feel narratively integrated becomes much more straightforward. But that’s no guarantee that every challenge will feel perfectly appropriate. One of Loom‘s more artificial puzzles involves a shepherd who keeps losing sheep in her flock to a hungry dragon. To solve the problem, the player must cast a dyeing spell–a spell earlier learned through, essentially, random examination of a cauldron of dye on a mage’s island–to turn the sheep green and thus camouflage them in the field.

It’s not a downright unnatural solution, and it has a certain fairy tale logic, but it lacks the straightforward feel of using magic to disguise oneself or using a simple “close” spell to seal a rift. Loom is not a game about an archetypal trickster using lateral thinking to solve problems in unconventional ways, and thus, for me, the sheep puzzle falls flat from a narrative perspective. Even with a narratively integrated set of mechanics, challenges using those mechanics still need to clear certain bars for optimal synthesis.

Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers – The Drums. Recently remade in a “20th Anniversary Edition,” Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers (Sierra On-Line, 1993) is a game better remembered for its engaging supernatural mystery storyline and strong characterization than for its puzzles. In truth, its puzzles are something of a mixed bag, combining some highly traditional pixel-hunting, “find and use this arbitrary object in an unusual way for unconvincing reasons”-style puzzles with other puzzles that are integrated into the narrative perfectly.

Gabriel Knight‘s drum “puzzle” is one of my favorites in adventure game history. The protagonist is effectively an amateur detective, trying to unravel the mystery behind a series of murders in New Orleans. From day one of the storyline, the player encounters (in the background) drummers playing on the streets. On day four, the player spots an informant talking to one drummer and learns from him that the drummers are part of an information network, sending messages via coded drumbeats. Research turns up the particulars of the code, and by day six, the player is able to decode the messages and infiltrate a gathering of the murderers’ cult.

But there’s more to it than this. The drum puzzle intersects with another puzzle involving the cult’s written messages–publicly displayed in plain sight like the drums, encoded as graffiti. As part of this sequence of events, the player must alter one of the written messages to manipulate the scheduled gathering. The need to send an additional drum message comes up yet again later on.

What makes the drum puzzle so effective from a narrative perspective? Let’s look at three things:

First, it resonates with and further develops the character of the protagonist. It involves our amateur detective unraveling a mystery that wouldn’t feel out of place on a television procedural, honing his skills and applying them in more advanced ways. The alteration of the coded message emphasizes the protagonist’s status as a manipulator–a liar and a scoundrel–even while putting those skills to benevolent use.

Second, the drum puzzle builds on elements introduced into the setting long before it becomes game-relevant (the drummers) and continues building on those same elements after the first stage of the puzzle is complete. The existence of written coded messages is a logical extension of the musical communications network. The drums aren’t simply a component of a puzzle, but a thread in the overall story.

Third, the puzzle contributes significantly to the mood of the game. The revelation that the murderous cult is operating in plain sight, watching and communicating with its agents in daylight is effectively creepy. The fact that the player has seen non-gameplay-relevant drummers before helps build a sense of oppressiveness and paranoia.

In other words, we have here a puzzle that advances character, story, and theme. A genuine rarity!

I want to stress that a failure to perfectly integrate gameplay challenges into narrative doesn’t make a game bad. But it’s a certainly a detriment to the narrative experience and should be evaluated as such.

We could take the same approach with quests in role-playing games–does a mission to gather gemstones in a dangerous ruin to open a magically sealed door really fit the overall narrative, advancing story, character, or theme in a meaningful way? What about the first combat encounter with skeletons in the wizard’s tower? What about the next twenty combat encounters? If you were adapting your game into a novel, would you leave these sequences in?

Even an action-adventure game or a story-driven first-person shooter can be broken down in this way, with each objective, level, or gameplay sequence justifying itself (or not) on the pure narrative level.

Is there a way to maintain the challenge and depth of gameplay content while still fully justifying it? Can every puzzle be a secret drum message puzzle?

Let’s try to find out.

Wizardry was for the hardcore: the players who grudgingly accepted auto-mapping but wanted the quality of the auto-generated maps to be dependent on the skills of the in-game party members, and who were still willing to keep reams of notes to keep the teleporter puzzles straight. Wizardry was for players who didn’t need fancy graphics or in-your-face storytelling getting in the way of combat. In Computer Gaming World‘s February 1991 preview of Wizardry VII: Crusaders of the Dark Savant, writer Alan Emrich goes on about the appearance of trees in a Wizardry game; understandable, since the seventh installment was the first Wizardry to have a world beyond the dungeon at all.

And while Wizardry may never have broadened its appeal, Wizardry VII was a masterpiece of its combat- and puzzle-heavy subgenre, ceaselessly challenging and immense in scope. For my tastes, it’s a bit too much–too much combat, puzzles fascinating but slightly too insane–and yet it remains a game that entrances me.

Largely because of that odd duck that Wizardry traditionally never spent much time on: the story. Let’s discuss why it worked.

The plot of Wizardry VII picks up from the (multiple) endings of Wizardry VI, a castle-crawling dungeon game taking place in a nondescript fantasy world with an occasionally philosophically brooding flavor (we’ll come back to that later). After freeing the land from the Bane King in Wizardry VI‘s finale, the party of voiceless player-created characters is swept away on a spaceship to a distant planet recently rediscovered–thanks to the chaos around the “Cosmic Forge” of the previous game–by the galactic community and purported to hold an artifact of great cosmological significance. The player is sent on a mission to explore this new world and compete against the other galactic factions (including the “herald of change,” the Dark Savant) to recover the artifact in question.

Wizardry VII is unapologetic but consistent about its introduction of science-fiction tropes into a predominantly fantasy environment–spaceships and laser guns are used freely by non-native groups while swords and magic are used by the locals, but technology is described by its effects, not by technical names (the first spaceship the characters encounter is described as a great metal flying beast). Our point of view, despite the lack of elaborate story setup, is made clear–our medieval characters are way out of their element–and a sense of alienation is immediately present.

With tile graphics largely recycled throughout the game and characters only depicted during combat and conversation (no ambient crowds here!), the primary means of story delivery in Wizardry VII is text.

A Thousand Words Can Be Worth More Than a Picture

David W. Bradley was designer, writer, and programmer on Wizardry VII, making the game the apparent vision of one man. (We’ll come back to that later.) It’s Bradley’s prose that periodically guides the players into his strange world–but keep in mind that the areas are mostly filled with combat encounters or puzzles. Text descriptions are highlights and rewards, far less common than, say, dialogue in a game such as Mass Effect.

Bradley’s prose is distinctive, with all the positives and negatives that suggests. Often overwrought, it’s also nonetheless evocative and possessed of a certain wan, avuncular humor alongside its philosophical brooding.

Below is one relatively simple example, preceding an encounter with a king the player has been seeking in a multi-level dungeon:

Shadows dance upon the walls of the dark and gloomy cathedral, and emptiness pervades the chamber deep within every crevice…

Faded tapestries, illuminated by the candlelight, depict scenes of warring tribes and victorious battles, and you glimmer that these represent eras of history now long passed…

Once this masterful stateroom was no doubt a bustle of activity, filled with endless politics and head-rolling decisions.

Now, only the lone figure silhouetted upon the distant throne, somber, forlorn, staring out as if pondering thoughts a million miles away, breaks through the depression which so clouds this desolate, desperate arena…

Note that the unusual paragraph format and ellipses are a product of how the game displays text, but Bradley works it effectively.

Scenes incorporating dialogue–or more often, monologues–can go on at some length. This is one of several such sequences from the player’s journey into a pseudo-dream realm (and neither the longest nor the strangest encounter there by far–see the linked video below for more):

Sitting upright upon a cushion, drawing smoke through a long supple tube, itself connected to a bulbous vase upon which rests a bowl of burning embers, a sedate munk succulently inhales his voyage into far distant reveries…

As you step near, he breaks the silence:

Life is a mystery…

A puzzle…

A riddle, a rebus, an enigma…

As you live, you discover some of its pieces…

Some you know, as if you had always known…

Others you do not recognize, and discard…

But all is a part of the puzzle…

To unlock its secrets, remember that all is but a piece, and not the puzzle complete…

Each man, each woman, all dwell in a grand collage…

That which you fear, is but a piece which looms in the shadows…

That which you believe, is but a piece that you cling to in safety…

All of this is a part of the rebus of Life…

No one shall ever solve it for you…

No one shall ever know you but you…

To behold the puzzle, is to gaze into the face of the unknown…

To solve the puzzle, is to walk the infinite journey…

Then the smoke billows profusely from his pipe, and soon the room is enclouded with a dense haze…

When the fog lifts, he is gone…

A little pouch is all that remains, tiny on the floor. Reaching to pick it up, you hear his voice whisper inside your head…

Do-dah…

In other places, text is simply used to cap an encounter in a tonally fitting manner. After killing a great sea monster the player heard about much earlier in the game (from a man who failed to slay it):

In the blood-filled waters the leviathan carcass slips back to the depths, a gruesome end to the monsterous legend…

There’ll be no trophy to adorn any marina’s walls, and perhaps this too is how it should be…

After all, real myths are hard to come by…

However one may feel about the quality of the prose (and I confess, I enjoy it despite its faults), he’s clearly providing an atmosphere and pushing at themes the game wouldn’t otherwise convey. Even a game with an unlimited budget for art, sound, and cinematics couldn’t convey Bradley’s ideas so elegantly–an attempt to remake Wizardry VII in the more cinematic style of Dragon Age or Skyrim would fail utterly. The textual element is essential–not a crutch for a game without the technological or budgetary resources to do more, but a key part of the design and vision for a thoughtful, ambitious, occasionally self-deprecating work.

Consider, too, the fact that Bradley’s prose wouldn’t work in other contexts but fits nicely here. A novel in this style might quickly wear out its welcome, but a few paragraphs every hour of gameplay? Perfectly acceptable. Nor, I think, is Bradley’s dialogue–which, again, is primarily monologue–particularly suited to voice acting, but it serves nicely on the screen. (Wizardry Gold–a voiced version of Wizardry VII, released quite some time after the original–does exist. I’m uncertain whether Bradley had any part in it, and I’ve never played it myself, but I’d be curious if my theory about the voice acting holds true.)

In an era when games that look and feel like movies are often considered the height of the art form, games that heavily integrate text tend to be seen as cheap by default. But it’s important to bear in mind that text can be an artistic choice, as well–why privilege the notion of an interactive movie above that of an interactive novel (or an interactive comic, or an interactive music concert?)

But back to Wizardry VII. Text is one way it establishes atmosphere, but not the only way.

Minimalist Worldbuilding and the Geography of Dreams

The setting of Wizardry VII–the planet Guardia–is an enigmatic one. While narration and conversations and set pieces occasionally hint at a long and rich history, it’s a history we’re never given. There’s no in-game codex of lore to teach the player about the origins of the rivalry between the Munk and the Dane. We’re given the sketchiest of outlines of the history of New City, but only because it directly pertains to our quest. The titular Dark Savant has a fantastic visual design, but where he came from and why he’s so driven to overthrow the cosmic status quo is a complete unknown.

There are a thousand smaller mysteries, as well–the player frees the ghost of a cursed old woman through an act of kindness, but never learns who she was or why she was cursed. And what of the mysteries implied by the strange names of random items and monsters? What’s the story behind the imprisoned (optional boss monster) “The Fiend of 9 Worlds”? Why can the “Cane of Corpus” only be used by a faerie ninja?

For the most part, I wouldn’t want those answers. A sense of mystery and wonder is integral to the atmosphere Wizardry VII aims to create. The player isn’t meant to conquer Guardia, but to arrive on a strange new planet (literally–remember, the characters have been transported across the galaxy without understanding any of it) and take part in a strange, mythical, ineffable journey.

There’s a strong trend of worldbuilding in post-Tolkien fantasy–settings with laboriously crafted histories and geographies that audiences are meant to enjoy learning as they go. This is especially true in the video game world, with its many Dungeons & Dragons-inspired universes. Implied settings are regaining a level of respectability, but are more common in action games than in full-fledged RPGs–I can’t recall the last RPG I played in which as little of the setting was ever revealed as in Wizardry VII.

Wizardry VII plays to its technical strengths in this regard, as well. The engine is incapable of rendering other characters when not in an encounter state (that is, in combat or conversation). That means cities always feel empty, and the text emphasizes that locales have been abandoned, shops shuttered, and so forth. Encounters with other characters are rare and always important. Guardia is a lonely world where individuals are more important than societies.

(There’s another point to be made in how Wizardry VII treats non-player characters: perhaps a dozen or more characters from the major factions wander the world semi-randomly, pursuing some of the same artifacts the player must acquire. Entirely offscreen, the NPCs meet, fight, trade objects, kill one another, and seize treasures before the player can–and in turn must occasionally be located by the player in order to acquire an object the player missed. While often less exciting than it sounds in theory, this aspect gives the NPCs a sense of life and richness of story that’s never explained; knowing only that Rodan Lewarx died fighting K’Borra T’Rang over the Legend map, it’s hard not to wonder and imagine what exactly happened.)

A Fantasy of Ideas

Fantasy that emphasizes worldbuilding also tends to de-emphasize another classic fantasy trait: the willingness to use fantasy stories as a means of wrestling directly with Big Ideas. One of the advantages of fantasy as a genre is that a story dealing thematically with (for example) the notion of growing old doesn’t need to drape itself in metaphors and subtlety–it can create a scenario in which the protagonists wrestle with Age Itself, embodied in flesh and wreaking havoc with a magic hourglass.

Wizardry VII wants to talk about big ideas and it’s not shy about it. Aside from the stylized monologues (which, as in the example above, often meander around questions of existence), it’s not far into the game that the player meets “the Spirit of Life, and the spirit that unites all creation and destruction”–on a sub-quest, no less. The “maps” the player must collect (text pieces which primarily serve as clues to some of the games nastier puzzles) are formulated as spiritual and philosophical treatises on life’s journey. The true nature of the game’s ultimate artifact, too, is in line with Wizardry VII‘s interests.

In a more grounded game–in a less enigmatic, dreamlike setting, or a game where voice acting and extensive cinematics rendered characters with startling realism–Wizardry VII‘s fantasy of ideas could easily come across as pompous and overblown. But with the unique support of Bradley’s prose and careful worldbuilding that prioritizes atmosphere above fact, it’s the charming core of a game that often feels more Lewis Carroll than George R. R. Martin.

I mentioned above that I’d come back to the fact that Wizardry VII is largely one man’s vision, and I suspect Bradley’s overwhelming presence is vital to making the game’s fantasy of ideas function. There’s a sincerity and a consistency to the themes Bradley explores that would likely be difficult to maintain in a game created (or written!) by a staff of hundreds. When you privilege theme above character, you must be prepared to treat thematic consistency with the same reverence many writers hold for characters–but getting a group of creators on the same page regarding a character can be much easier than doing the same with a grand philosophical notion.

Taking Flight (and Closing Thoughts)

None of this is to say that Wizardry VII‘s narrative (or its gameplay, for that matter) is flawless. Bradley’s sense of humor and winks to the audience occasionally fall flat or jar, and the game’s treatment of women and minorities leaves much to be desired. The big ideas, while fun, aren’t likely to change anyone’s religion, and likely aren’t meant to. As mentioned above, one’s tolerance for Bradley’s prose may determine how much one enjoys the narrative overall.

But because of its integration of textual elements, its minimalist worldbuilding and transformation of technical limitations into thematic triumphs, and its interest in tackling subject matter rarely hit head-on in fantasy computer role-playing games, it works in a way that few other games do–and it works successfully. That makes it worthy of consideration.

For those intrigued, Wizardry VII is available in digital form (packaged along with the “upgraded” Wizardry Gold–which, as mentioned, I can’t pass judgment on–and Wizardry VI) from GOG.com and Steam. Wizardry VI is also the work of Bradley, and while clearly the creation of the same man is ultimately somewhat less ambitious and even more technically dated.

Wizardry 8 picks up the cliffhanger ending of Wizardry VII, but it isn’t the work of Bradley, who had moved on to other companies and other projects. Although it’s a fine game in many respects, the absence of his narrative touch is greatly felt. In truth, I’ve never finished Wizardry 8… I intend to at some point, but without philosophical meanderings and the promise of life’s great secrets, it hardly feels like the same world, even sharing the same characters.

Really, Wizardry VII‘s own ending resolves quite a bit, and what’s left? The promise of another journey into space, secrets of the gods still untapped–perhaps leaving that bit of mystery intact is consistent with Bradley’s vision after all.

Special thanks to Øystein Pettersen, whose intricate walkthrough helped me track down the text segments reprinted here. My official hint book–which, madly and wonderfully, replicates most of the game text–was out of reach.

At the start of his 1991 review of Wing Commander II: Vengeance of the Kilrathi, Alan Emrich wrote in Computer Gaming World #88:

For several months now, Wing Commander has reigned as the number-one game, as rated by this magazine’s readers. Clearly, there must be a lot “right” with this game. Even though Wing Commander is, at least at its most basic level, something of a glorified arcade game, there is also something that sets it apart. Perhaps it is the inclusion of a believable, evolving storyline, full of sympathetic comrade characters and vain, vile villains that bring a certain je ne sais pas.

He was absolutely right. Wing Commander was a fantastic game by any measure, but it was an attention to narrative that propelled it into its position as a multimedia franchise. The game would spawn numerous sequels, expansion packs, spinoffs, novels, an animated series, a feature film… some better than others, admittedly, but the quality of the core series started high and remained so.

In 1991, Origin Systems (shortly before the company’s acquisition by Electronic Arts) published Wing Commander II: Vengeance of the Kilrathi, which would prove to be one of the franchise’s high points. With the exception of adding then-rare voiceover content in a limited number of places and the sheer quantity of cinematic sequences, it is not an especially innovative game from a standpoint of storytelling mechanics. The dialogue, while more than acceptable for its time, reads as less-than-stellar today. But it is a game that excelled at the execution of its story, particularly in how its narrative elements supported and bolstered the game’s mechanics–and how the mechanics and mission design, in turn, supported its story.

It is, in short, worth examining as a case study. Let’s talk about why it worked.

In Wing Commander II, the player takes on the role of a space fighter pilot in a war against an aggressive alien race called the Kilrathi. Nearly all actual gameplay takes place in space, with the player dogfighting enemies while assisted by one of about a dozen AI-controlled wingmen. The missions can involve a variety of enemies and a bit of travel–there are escort missions, missions targeting capital ships or space stations, battles against enemy aces, defense missions, etc.–but the core dogfighting mechanic remains the same.

The wingmen (mostly) fade into the background during fights, but they’re relevant nonetheless. Each has a particular combat style suited to his or her personality along with numerous one-liners during flight. They can be given orders, and some will follow through better than others. There are somber professionals, brilliant fighters who will happily clip you if you pass through their cone of fire, inexperienced and awkward newbies, and so on.

Each mission begins and ends with a cinematic sequence, usually depicting a mission briefing and debriefing (though occasionally diverging from the form if the story didn’t allow for a proper debriefing due to an emergency aboard the ship, etc.) Cinematic sequences during the missions themselves are used extremely sparingly. When not in a cinematic sequence or in space, the player is stationed in a small hub that serves as a control panel (the player can save the game, check the scoreboard, etc.) and interface to begin the next mission or access an optional in-between mission cinematic sequence.

Two points are notable about the hub: the “control panel” elements are depicted as thematically appropriate objects (quitting the game involves selecting the airlock–though note that all elements are labeled with their functions when moused-over) and the hub itself is redesigned several times as the player transfers from ship to ship throughout the game. These could be seen as gimmicks, perhaps, but they suggest that the designers were committed to maintaining a certain atmosphere throughout.

Nonetheless, despite a great deal of attention to mood and atmosphere, the story is driven by non-interactive cutscenes. It’s very easy to see how the story would go wrong: Lots of scenes discussing the overall course of the war, how important each and every mission is, talking heads giving some personal background and setting information, and so on.

But the effectiveness of Wing Commander II‘s narrative comes from the choice to tell a simple story supported by the game mechanics. The focus of the story is on three elements:

The career and reputation of the player character. Wrongly accused of betrayal or, at best, gross negligence as part of the game’s backstory, the player’s reputation is at stake from the start and plays an important role in all his interactions with colleagues and superior officers. But the story isn’t a mystery plot–the player isn’t trying to dig up secrets (and in fact, somewhat stumbles upon the final solution); it’s simply a way of giving emotional color to the story and giving the player motivation to succeed.

The relationship between the player character and the wingmen. Virtually every cinematic sequence in the game uses the same limited set of characters–the player, the wingmen, and a scattered few supporting cast members (superior officers, etc.) The number of characters in the cast is kept small, villains are kept to bit parts, and everything is about growing relationships, watching the other characters change over the course of the war, romances blooming, etc. One of the larger subplots running through the story is the element of a potential traitor–which, again, just further colors the player’s relationship with the supporting cast.

The tone of the war. Not the strategy of the war–there are strategic reasons for the action, but they’re usually background. I don’t remember anything about the details, frankly–but what I do remember is the discussions of the Kilrathi as a foe that won’t surrender, the despair of the crew, the moral question of how to define victory against a race that will fight to its death. In the end of the game, victories are won but the war isn’t over–and aside from the necessity of setting up sequels and expansions, this feels right as a tonal choice.

What this boils down to is a moody story centered on the player character and his relationships–perfect for a game looking to emotionally involve the player. Players don’t (without a lot of work) care about the fate of Earth; it’s big, it’s abstract, and it’s not particularly relatable in any real-world way. But they care about themselves and how others view them.

So these are smart elements to focus on. But more than that, they’re all elements that are mechanically supported by the gameplay. Let’s consider each again.

The career and reputation of the player character are mechanically tracked in minor ways–for example, a “kill board” listing the player’s total kills in comparison to those of the rest of the crew (who are, of course, just AIs)–and in major ways, such as the player’s gradual, growing access to better ships and weaponry. These are, of course, standard mechanics–but they become more meaningful when paired with the story, and vice-versa.

The relationship between the player character and the wingmen is, as described above, a persistent part of the dogfighting game. Giving commands and bantering with the wingmen in-flight, as well as their support and unique flying styles, are all aspects that make the cinematic sequences focused on interpersonal relationships meaningful. These characters aren’t irrelevant to the gameplay–they’re always there and who they are matters.

As a “glorified arcade game,” there’s not much in the way of complex mechanics when it comes to enemy interaction. The player shoots down enemy ships and has the option to engage in short chatter during dogfights (mostly insulting enemies to gain their attention). Still, the chatter puts a face on the foe while the unrelenting violence and inability to accept surrender nicely fits the tone of the war. Again, this is hardly a revelatory set of mechanics, but imagine a story that focused on the enemy’s honor and desire for peace instead of unrelenting ferocity. The choice of tone fits the game as designed, builds on it, and enhances the end effect.

Ultimately, Wing Commander II works on a narrative level because it keeps the story about the player, not external events; it supports its narrative with game mechanics, and vice versa; and it keeps its gameplay and story tonally consistent.

Simple things. But they mean a lot–and how many games, even twenty years later, succeed so admirably?