Lessons Learned: Video Games, Part 2
Hello, everyone, and welcome to the final (at least, for now) installment of Lessons Learned. Last time, I spoke about the similarities between the processes of game development and composition; today, I’m going to discuss how playing games can be helpful to us composers. There are two types of video game, at least in the anthill I call my brain: games that (mostly) hinge on strategy and planning, and games that (mostly) require technical skill and consistent mechanical input. I’m going to make the case that each of these are useful to composers in their own special ways, and God help whoever disagrees with me. On with the show!
Lesson 1: Planning
I’ve already spoken about how playing Magic: the Gathering has taught me about theorycrafting and its application to composition, but my particular form of autism has led me to experience many other, similarly crunchy, games. I’ve been known to enjoy Civilization V and Divinity: Original Sin in my time, and both games involve a similar type of thinking. The impending Baldur’s Gate 3 release threatens to suck up a whole bunch of my time, so I suppose I should make a case for why I’ll put fifty hours into it within two weeks of release. Strategy games of the 4X (Explore, Expand, Exploit, Exterminate) variety demand sequential thinking. The first dozen turns in a game of Civ V are always intoxicating because they reveal opportunities: building scout units expands awareness of the map, showing nearby civilizations and city-states and offering new avenues for expansion. I not only need to think of defending my first city, but the empty space where I want to place my second, third, and fourth cities; all of this is further complicated by the fact that important resources like coal, oil, and aluminium won’t be visible on the map for another few hours of gameplay. This kind of thinking that requires imagining where future entities will go is absolutely essential for me when planning out a piece of music. I can write nary a note of music without having at least some idea of where I’m headed: I get completely paralyzed when I write the beginning of a piece without knowing what comes after. I’m currently working on a seven-minute piece for six performers, and the biggest challenge of that piece thus far has been to decide on what comes after the section I’m currently writing. Templates have been a stalwart ally of mine in these times. Just as my default play in Civ V is to make a stable base of four cities in relatively close proximity with each other, part of my composition process always involves looking at past pieces and figuring out how they’re organized. In the above example, I’ve chosen to organize the piece around the golden section, placing its climax around the four-minute mark and allowing for two or three minutes of denouement. How I make these kinds of decisions is contextual and depends on my current understanding of the underlying characteristics of a piece.
Lesson 2: Execution
I’ll now do my best to justify my past love of multiplayer shooters. Games that focus on moment-to-moment execution – reflexes, timing, movement, aim, and tactics – don’t, in my opinion, map neatly onto the composition process. Outside of its missions, Monster Hunter offers practice in theorycrafting builds for optimal monster slaying and rewards learning the weaknesses and weak spots of any given monster, but the actual gameplay hinges much more on kinesthetics, on practicing and consistently executing weapon combos and evading monster attacks, actions which apply more to music performance than to the sedentary act of composition. On the other hand, spectating action games – especially competitive multiplayer games – can offer a similar kind of inspiration to us composers as we might get from watching dancing or sports. Watching the elegant and skilful movement and positioning of extremely skilled players in a game like Apex Legends is a different beast from the cerebral crunchiness of Hearts of Iron or Baldur’s Gate. It can inspire line and gesture rather than structure, and can be a useful analogy when trying to put together the moment-to-moment details of a piece. One of my most-performed pieces, Storms over Camp Creek, has a form that’s mainly expressed through gesture. I was inspired by how birds stop singing during a thunderstorm and stay quiet for several minutes after the storm has passed, so I wrote a florid, melismatic melody and presented it in a “muted” form after the piece’s central “storm” section. The process of writing this melody’s three incarnations was intuitive rather than cerebral: I composed instinctively by thinking about how the melody should rise and fall, how it should interact with underlying rhythm and harmony to produce the intended effect. This type of composition drew heavily on my experience with jazz improvisation, something that can be closely compared to action games. The basic principles of improv – drawing upon prior knowledge and mechanical skill to produce an output that’s always a little different from its prior iterations – maps neatly onto my experience of playing, say, Overwatch – as a jazz soloist uses knowledge and techniques of their instrument and the harmony of the chart they’re playing while paying attention to what the rhythm section are up to, so a skilled Overwatch player uses knowledge of the character and the map to properly position themselves while being aware of the movement of their opponents and allies to ensure that they’re being maximally valuable to their team.
Conclusion: Full Circle
While I do hope that the insights I’ve provided this month will be useful to some composers out there, I must stress that they’re just the beginning. There’s a vast well of creative techniques that apply loosely to every creative discipline, and each of those disciplines interacts with its siblings in myriad ways that I’ve only begun to cover here. My aim in writing this series was not only to show off my sick gaming and media analysis skills (although I do hope you’ll stand in awe of my prowess (please, I need recognition for something)), but to offer a way into this kind of connective thinking, to help turn non-work hobbies into a nightmare hellworld that reminds you of work 24/7. I’m only exaggerating a little there, by the way. In a society that imposes immense financial pressures on the vast majority of us, it can be tempting to monetize every aspect of our lives and turn any activity that brings us joy into a side hustle that ends up being as painful and soul-sucking as our actual job. At the risk of rendering obsolete four weeks of writing, I’d like to end here by saying that it’s okay to just let hobbies be hobbies, to let your brain turn off while you play Armored Core VI and enjoy life outside of work. I happen to have been cursed with a brain that never shuts off and is always making inane connections between my work-hobby and my hobby-hobby, so I’m exempt from my own rules – besides, my level of composing can barely be considered gainful employment.
Speaking of which, commissions are open for 2024! I’ve been lucky enough to get some generous commissions from groups all over Canada this past year, but I’m looking for ways to subsidize my Magic card collection (and less important things like food and shelter) in the coming months, and I would greatly appreciate anyone who wants to do the onerous work of writing grants to pay for a cool little piece from your local creature. If this blogging thing continue to hold my interest, I might consider making a Patreon for some optional other income, so watch out for that.
Regardless, I hope you learned something from my ramblings this month, and I welcome any feedback and discussion. I’ve got lots more writing in the works, so stay tuned for even more deranged scrawl from your favourite being, and, as always, take care and stay safe.