Patapon, developed by Pyramid and published by Sony Computer Entertainment

When you last tuned in to our monthly feature, it was only appropriate that sparks were flying fast and furious as we sparred with MTV News reporter Stephen Totilo over the racing game Burnout Paradise in Vs. Mode (also featured on his blog Multiplayer). Right now, it's too early to tell whether tensions will similarly rise as we discuss the strange, sublime Patapon, a "side-scrolling rhythm-based real-time strategy game for the PSP," as we describe it below. Why? For the simple reason that both sides very much enjoyed the game. But rest assured, we'll look for honest points of contention as this installment of the series goes on.

In today's, Round one, we raise three points for discussion: the power of indirect control; the importance of feel; and the thrill of iconic design. For Totilo's part, he addresses the topic of gamer guilt and considers the difference between games that you control and games that you orchestrate. Read on.

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To: Stephen Totilo
Fr: N'Gai Croal
Date: March 21, 2008
RE: Pon-Pata-Pon-Pata

Stephen,

What is the best way to prepare for an exchange about a game that we played nearly three months ago? The game in question is Patapon--Sony Computer Entertainment's side-scrolling rhythm-based real-time strategy game for the PSP--and for three weeks or so spanning December and January, you and I were both obsessed with it. (Perhaps this is a holiday thing; the year before, I'd been similarly taken with Metal Gear Solid: Portable Ops, breaking out my PSP at every possible opportunity to recruit soldiers via Wi-Fi with Gotta Catch 'Em All dedication.) So apart from a few marathon Rock Band sessions here and there, all I was doing was playing Patapon. I suppose its possible that had I spent the holidays at home in Brooklyn rather with friends in San Francisco or L.A., I might have indulged in my backlog of console games, but I rather doubt it. Patapon got its hooks into me deeply enough that I'd have continued to forsake my 360, PS3 or Wii with nary a trace of guilt.

That was then. Today, I don't really think too much about Patapon, other than this residual obligation of Vs. Mode and a bit of guilt over never having done the Q&A I planned with the game's creators. How is it possible that a game that so thoroughly consumed me for 21 days and change--that burned through me like a fever--now appears to have barely left a trace, other than a vaguely physical disquiet, an almost muscle memory of when it held my thumbs in grip of an obsession?

That's why I'm wondering how I should prepare for this post, seeing as I didn't take notes during my original playthrough. Should I start over from the beginning? Resume where I left off, frustrated both at my inability to unlock the "stews" that power up my Patapon as well as the difficulty of the final boss? Or just search my memory and trust that whatever I remember three months after the fact will in fact be the most salient topics of discussion?

I'll take door #3, and throw out three subjects for us to consider.

1. The Power of Indirect Control

Patapon was one of those games that I didn't bother spending much hands on time with at the couple of press events where it was available for play. Not because I wasn't interested; the moment Sony's 2007 E3 press conference was over, I sought out the PR team to inquire about two games: Echochrome and Patapon, so intrigued was I by both games' unique art direction and gameplay. But there are certain games that I feel would almost be a waste of time for me to play during a limited session; that I'd rather wait for a preview build or the finished game so that I can really delve into the mechanics. Patapon was one of those games.

When I did finally play it, I wondered whether I'd like the indirect nature of the controls: the fact that while I gave my Patapons their, um, marching orders by way of the various drum patterns, it's not the same kind of precision that you have in a platformer or a shooter. And while it was occasionally frustrating, in the sense of, "Damn, I wish I could have moved them to exactly that spot," I quickly got accustomed to it, and it became part of the game's charm. Truth be told, it was also necessary, much like the games drumbeat controls, because they add just the right amount of complexity to what is at its core a very simple game.

2. The Importance of Feel

Part of what got me thinking of indirect controls and feel was my experience playing flOw on the PSP. In the original PS3 version, the controls are inverted, and there seems to be a barely perceptible delay between your gesture and your creature's response. The end result is that you sort of end up feeling that you are the creature moving in fluid rather than controlling some pixels on a screen--the controls give the game its feel. On the PSP, the controls aren't inverted, making it more of a direct control game, and it threw me off completely. It didn't feel like flOw at all, and not in a good way, either. It was only when I was killing time in my hotel during South by Southwest that I realized that the delay was in the PSP version, and it started to feel more like the original. But I'd much rather play it on the PS3, where it feels just right.

With Patapon, once I mastered the controls, they faded into the background in an interesting way. I stopped thinking about the buttons, and that was good, because thinking about what buttons to press was a sure-fire way to lose the beat. instead, I looked at the screen, listened to the rhythm of the music, tapped out the desired beat, and watched my Patapons respond. (Should we even be describing Patapon as a rhythm game, or is it in fact a call-and-response game?) Actually, I didn't so much watch my Patapons respond, because I was already busy planning my next move--Pon-Pon-Pata-Pon? Chaka-Chaka-Pata-Pon? Pon-Pata-Pon-Pata?--while admiring my previous handiwork.

All games exist in the empty space between your thumbs, your eyes and your mind, but for some reason it feels even more so in Patapon. I tried to locate my role in the experience--was I the Pantheistic God of the Patapons; an Actor playing the part of the flag bearer; or simply my self, the Player--and I found that I was generally myself. I wasn't playing a role inside the experience so much as I was guiding my Patapons to victory from without. Yet at the same time, I felt thoroughly immersed. And I think the reason that occurs has to do with...

3. The Thrill of Iconic Design

There's a mistaken belief that permeates much of the industry, which is that "realistic" graphics will enable videogames to break on through to truly mainstream audiences. But when we consider the success of Bejewelled, Peggle, Guitar Hero, Rock Band and Wii Sports, it's clearly not the case. As graphics technology improves, the exploration of non-photorealistic rendering techniques should go hand in hand with the quest for verisimilitude. Unfortunately, too many developers and publishers would rather focus on the latter, even on the PSP, a platform whose titles could use a complete design rethink. Thank goodness Sony, at least, is motivated to do so, with games like Loco Roco and the forthcoming Echochrome. Just because it's roughly the power of a PS2 in a handheld doesn't mean that we should be playing PS2 games on the go.

Back to Patapon: its art direction cleverly evokes a tribal, hunter-gatherer-warrior vibe in a charming, graceful manner without ever verging into offensive stereotype, which it could have easily done. In our Portal exchange, I wrote about the importance of games that leave room for the player to imagine, and not only do Patapon's iconic visuals do this very nicely, the same can be said of its other design elements. The way that the Patapons greeted my return from combat with a campfire celebration for every victory, and with their silent absence when I lost. The overworld menu, which steadily opened up leftward as I progressed through the game, subtly reinforcing the side-scrolling nature of the game. The various battle cries and ululations of the Patapons. It all felt unique, of a piece, and--as I reflect on how much of it I've actually retained--indelible.

It's not perfect, however, which I'll get into more in my next post. But I'm curious as to how much of the Patapon experience has stayed with you. Did you like grinding your way to progress like the Clipse on a Virgina street corner, or did you wish you could sell your troops back for the Ka-ching you needed to obtain better warriors?

Cheers,

N'Gai

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To: N'Gai Croal
Fr: Stephen Totilo
Date: March 23, 2008
RE: Guilt-Free Gaming

N'Gai,

If I reviewed games for a living and had to include in my reviews numerically scored classifications of elements like graphics and sound, I would include one category that would ideally get a low number. That category would be the ability of the game to instill guilt.

And on that criterion, Patapon would score as well as any game I have ever played. I recall it fondly. I recall it, unlike so many other games, without guilt.

Guilt? Yes, N'Gai, I was raised Catholic. But I don't think that is why games so often make me feel guilty. Sometimes a game gives guilt because it keeps me indoors when I should be outside (justified guilt). Sometimes I get game guilt because I choose to play a game on a Thursday night rather than perform some more socially approved act, like going to an after-work party (unjustified guilt). Sometimes the guilt I get is caught from the game, a contagious byproduct of the inferiority complex exhibited in games that are trying to be like movies or TV or some other non-game form and are falling short. Such a game makes me feel that if I truly wanted, say, a compelling narrative experience I should have just rented a Hollywood classic or cracked open a book. And sometimes the gaming guilt I feel--surely you've felt this way too--is due to the surrendering hours of my life to some level-grind or unforgiving save system or some other junk game design element that hides a lack of true nutritional value.

I don't feel guilt over the beautiful things in life, nor over stuff that's fun in a way--how does one distinguish these things?--that's not worth feeling guilty about. Forgive the tautology. Here are some examples:

• Super Mario Galaxy, refreshingly fun and original in design at every minute I've played of it so far--no guilt there.
• Tetris, as pure and perfect a play experience as ever has been made, just a shade harder to put down than it is to pick-up--minimal guilt there.
• Devil May Cry 4, enjoyed much of it and finished it a week ago, thought some of it was pretty cool, but now I feel a bit guilty about it. I feel like some of my time was wasted by uninteresting puzzles and repeated levels (beware the backtracking).
• I feel guilt over Dragon Quest VIII, sensing it was a mistake to spend hours on gameplay and story that did not entertain me, challenge me or surprise me.
• I felt some guilt--not a ton, but some--as I neared the end of Pursuit Force 2: Extreme Justice,, subconsciously calculating that two full games of Pursuit Force gameplay more than exceeded my personal bi-annual quota for that sort of thing. Wasn't there something better I could have doing in life than Missions 10-15 or whatever? Some sonnet I could have been reading? Some new episode of Frontline that I could have watched?

There are many possible triggers for my gaming guilt. Patapon pulls none of them.

You asked how I remember the game? I recall it fondly. I recall it guilt-free. I recall it the way I wish I recalled more video games: as something altogether fun, captivating, distinctly beautiful, unencumbered by significant flaws. I recall it as a very specific entity, a game that is related to others but sprouted its own new branch. I recall it as the rare game I spent 19 hours playing to completion that didn't feel like it was wasting my time. Like I said, I recall it guilt-free.

How many games do we not have to apologize for when recommending them to others? How often do we have to say not to mind the character design or the dialogue or the music or the controls or something else? How many did we in some way suffer? Is the high tolerance for imperfection not unique to gamers, at least to the extent we have to suck it up and try not to be bothered by the bad parts--or, if you're like me, feel guilty that we spent time with things so full of bad parts?

There's just one thing I didn't like in Patapon, one thing to possibly feel bad about even though I never did. That was the need, occasionally, to grind, to send my army of little soldiers through one mission multiple times to earn enough money and materials to forge a warrior who could propel my forces through their next trial in victory. But even this aggravation was ameliorated by Patapon's best quality, its rhythms. To grind a level in Patapon is to re-play a favorite song, to re-indulge in a four-minute experience of specific rhythm and flow. A grind in other games is often the repetition of chore; grind in Patapon is a return to a pleasant ditty.

Let me tell you my favorite memory of playing Patapon. I was on the subway, my troops marching to the right, throwing spears and slashing swords against their enemies of war. I kept them fighting by tapping out a rhythm that I could hear in my headphones. I tapped it consistently and repeatedly enough that they became super-charged with "fever." A complex, lovely mix of drums and whistles swirled as I stamped my fingers. I kept tapping the rhythm. They kept fighting. And my subway screeched into my home station. Without breaking the rhythm of my button taps, I stood up. I took my eyes off the game and I walked onto the subway platform. I looked down on the game again, but for just a few seconds, maybe two loops of the four-note Patapon rhythm, my little troops were fighting without me seeing them. I had given them charge, swept them up with music. They acted away from me.

The subway moment demonstrated how special this game is. Like you pointed out, we players of Patapon are not characters in the game. We are outside orchestrators. We are ourselves. To extend that idea, I believe that we use the game both to order artificial intelligence but to entertain ourselves. In my brief moment of playing but not watching Patapon, that moment on the threshold between subway and subway platform, I was indulging in both aspects, giving the game's characters commands to do something without me, and giving myself some audio enjoyment by keeping a riff going. One means: two ends. An unusual video game experience. What did it mean? I think it means that playing Patapon isn't really like playing many other games. You're not so much a puppeteer, deriving pleasure in how the strings you pull affect something else. Instead, you are a composer of a soundtrack or you are a preacher or you are a weather pattern above a civilization. You create mood that compels reaction.

Consider a version of Super Mario Galaxy in which you don't tell Mario when to backflip, when to shoot stars, when to dive underwater, and so forth. Or a version of The Sims in which you don't have to manage appetite, bladder, romance and professional aspiration. Imagine versions of these games in which your only influence is your orchestration of the soundtrack. Playing happy music makes good things happen. Playing dissonant, poorly constructed music lets things go awry. These would be games of emotion and mood, evocative and less direct. This is how I remember Patapon working, all operating on a more removed level than even the standard god-game. And this is why I don't feel guilt over it: It let me set a mood, enjoy the reaction and in the process drum some lovely music. The game satisfied three senses--touch, sight and hearing--beautifully.

For three months it has been over. It's an album I don't feel the need to go back and play again. Not yet. But I recall it like a god, complete book or movie. It used my time well when I was with it, and left me with a good impression.

So I wonder, N'Gai, what do you make of its music? What do you make of the experience of rhythm as control? Does Patapon present a lesson of how to extend rhythm game as a control device for any and all other gameplay genres? I know you're about to tell me what's wrong with Patapon. Let's hear it. But also, tell me, now that you've played a rhythm RTS, would you play a rhythm-Sims? A rhythm-Madden? Any other game in which "all" you do is make the music that compels the players on the stage.

Oh, and do you ever feel any of that gamer guilt?

Stephen

Next: Gamer guilt? More like gamer rage, we say. Plus further exploration into what kind of rhythm game Patapon really is.