"Journey" as Art: Capturing Catharsis in Video Games
to be so small . . .
In Roger Ebert’s controversial 2010 blog entitled “Video games can never be art,” Ebert goes on record, once again, by clearly stating “video games cannot be art” and that “no video gamer now living will survive long enough to experience the medium as an art form.” What follows these overly presumptuous statements is a diatribe through which Ebert attempts to validate his claims by using a TED Talks, delivered by Kellee Santiago in which she asks "Are Video Games Art?", as ammunition to shoot holes in the idea of artistic video games; however, the argument has one side to it and the problems with his evaluation quickly become evident through the narrow scope of his critique.
When Ebert references art, he conjures up artists like Picasso and writers such as T.S. Eliot and Samuel Beckett for his point of reference. While there isn’t a question as to whether or not these figures produced art, Ebert refuses to acknowledge the idea that most art wasn’t considered as such until many years later when the definition of art finally caught what was being produced. Furthermore, Ebert seems resistant to the idea that an artistic medium outside the confines of traditional thought could exist whatsoever. To conclude his blog, he argues that “Bobby Fischer, Michael Jordan and Dick Butkus never said they thought their games were an art form,” — why should a video game be any different?
A video game should be different. The definition of what a video game actually is has been somewhat dynamic throughout the years. When video games first arrived, they were simplistic—equivalent to the scratches on the walls of caves seen during the TED Talk. They were, by definition, games that you play on your television. As the years have progressed, video games have taken on a certain cinematic-like artistry that seems to transcend the traditional tag of “video game”; this progression has caused video games to transform from simple games into something that the user experiences, in the same way they would a movie or a novel. It could be said that some modern-day video games are more attuned at bringing the player closer to achieving Aristotle’s cathartic experience than most movies. One of these video games that seem to transcend the label and provide an artistic, aesthetically satisfying experience is 2012s critically acclaimed “Journey”.
In “Journey”, the player assumes the role of a nameless, robed wanderer in what appears to be an endless desert. When the game first loads up, there is a brief, wordless opening sequence that aims the camera to the games ultimate objective: an imposing mountain, presumably miles off in the distance. Unlike most games, “Journey” has no speech, text, or true instructions to assist the player; like learning how to perform a basic function in real life, the user must learn how to accomplish things through experience. Thankfully, the experience comes quick because there are few actual things to learn – the left analog stick controls the figure while the right controls the camera; one button makes the figure jump and another emits a musical-note sounding shout that varies in intensity dependent upon how long the button is held. The simplicity of the controls enables the user to immediately begin exploring the environment rather than learning how to do so.
It is through exploration that the true artistry of “Journey” becomes apparent. Without a clear objective, players will wander aimlessly across the game’s sweeping environments—that is the purpose of “Journey”. No journey, real or fictional, is without elements of discovery and the developers understood that half the trip is getting there (pardon the cliché). It is because of this simple concept that “Journey” can achieve the profound impact that it does. Playing on human nature, it peaks the player’s sense of wonder by inviting them to explore everything. The game’s first true cathartic experience occurs while exploring a small portion of the enormous landscape for the first time. Similar to looking up at the stars, “Journey” possesses the ability to make the player feel small and insignificant by taking the immensity of the natural world and applying it to a landscape where seemingly no one else remains. You are in awe of the immensity of your implied task. This feeling of desolation is only intensified as the journey continues and the player begins to discover remnants of civilizations. The resulting effect is twofold: you feel curious and sad. These two emotions play off of one another; your curiosity drives you to discover what happened to the inhabitants of such a glorious civilization; however, you can’t help but think the worst. This cathartic experience is just the first in what eventually becomes a spectrum of emotional release.
In one of the more creative twists in video-game history, “Journey” will insert other players into the game that you will undoubtedly venture across. Both of you seemingly have the same objectives but, because of the games lack of interface, you have no way of communicating with them outside of the aforementioned musical-note shout. The beauty in this design comes from a few aspects of its implementation. Because the other player has no name and never does; they forever remain an anonymous figure to you (until the game's end). This anonymity eliminates preconceptions that a name could create and, instead, helps the player focus on forming a bond in any way possible. Since there are no objectives to race to or monsters to kill, there is no competition to be had; instead, the game’s multiplayer aspect fosters dependence and cooperation (evoking Tolstoy’s definitions of art) that challenges the player to discover their morality; who they truly are outside the realm of intelligent communication. The game’s ambivalence to its multiplayer only adds to the artistry: you are not encouraged, nor are you discouraged, from working with another player, but working with someone ultimately makes you feel connected to something—a union in a world of separation. When you are alone, “Journey” becomes a game entwined more so with Aristotle’s definition of art by making you feel the emotions common to the human experience. You feel abandoned. Your brain tells you how alone you truly are in the unfamiliar world and the resulting emotion, sadness, is released. However, when you find someone else on the same journey, the game transforms into one about union, more aligned with Tolstoy’s definition. You get a sense of pleasure from the presence of the nameless player and develop a relationship based on mortality. Their existence alone helps connect you to the rest of the world you’re exploring.
In Aristotle’s Poetics, he suggests that because of the essential beauty in nature, we learn to create beautiful things. “Journey” creates the simplistic beauty of a land lost in time, and abandoned by society, and urges the player to experience them, sometimes alone, sometimes aided by a nameless friend. Whether defining art through Tolstoy’s definition that describes it as a Union, challenging us to discover who we are supposed to be morally, or through Aristotle’s more conventional definition that promotes cathartic experiences —“Journey” becomes something that transcends the boundaries restricting conventional mediums. Regardless of the definition you choose for art, the resulting effect of “Journey” is art in every sense of the word. It guides the player on an emotional journey that removes them from the world they know and encourages them to experience the beauty that’s inherent in the nature of existence.