The reopening of old wounds came from Ebert's responses to comments made by horror novelist Clive Barker, who took Ebert's year-old stance to task at the "Hollywood and Games Summit" which was held recently. (You can read the full piece here, which I recommend you do.) Barker, you should note, has his name attached to the forthcoming first-person shooter Jericho, so his comments are curiously timed, if nothing else. Regardless, he makes some interesting points, as does Ebert with his responses. And while I disagree with Ebert's (revised) stance that games cannot be high art, I agree with him on this particular point:


Flippant end, but valid concern. If a game — or a movie, or a book, or whatever you like — makes you feel happy the first time, then depressed the second time, then scared the third time, then inspired the fourth time, what does that say about it? Some would consider it to be a wonderfully multi-layered piece, seamlessly adaptable and amazingly diverse. I'd say it's unfocussed and unsure of itself.

What Ebert has raised, perhaps unwittingly, is the strength of the linear game. From beginning to end it tells one concrete tale. It delivers one concrete experience, having honed that experience all throughout development, ensuring it presents the best story and provides the best method of telling it that it possibly can. To have the power to change any of that removes the strength of the resulting message. You had a hand in unlocking the happy ending from a choice of four? Then that's not the game's stance, that's what you made it say.

However, when one limits the possibility of the player's actions from diluting the designer's intention, that's when games delve into something deeper. (This assumes that auteur theory can apply to games, and I believe in some instances it can — see Hideo Kojima's Metal Gear Solid series.) The game can still be a "game" in the sense that it presents a series of challenges to interact with and solve, but those challenges are not only more tightly controlled, but are a means to deliver the game's point. In this regard, an open-ended game has a tough deal: the player can do their own thing, create their own pacing, see what they like and talk to whomever they please, and all that can potentially get in the way. It can affect how the game's message is delivered — something that's arguably an important factor in this whole "games as art" debate.

For now, let's remain focussed on the linear game, and allow me to bring one prime example to the fore: Shadow of the Colossus (yeah, it's not a PC game, so sue me). It could be seen as "linear", in that despite being able to roam around the game's world at your own pace, the ending is always set in stone, and the way you will get there involves slaying each skyscraper-sized Colossus in a specific manner, with that manner remaining the same on subsequent play-throughs. But so what? It took nothing away from the magic of the game and for me, one instance in particular stood out: the fifth Colossus. The flying one.

You, an average boy on a quest to save a young girl, have somehow managed to scrabble onto the back of a giant bird-shaped being. You know what you've got to do: drive your sword through the three symbols on its body. As soon as that's done, it happens. The majestic beast slows its pace, then — like an aircraft losing altitude — falls tragically out of the sky, crashing into a lake with a booming splash. Helpless.

There it was, doing its Colossus flying thing one moment, and drowning underwater the next. I'll admit that, the moment that happened, I put down the controller and stared. I felt empty. I felt like a bit of a bastard. Then I felt impressed that a videogame caused me to feel like that.

What would you do to save someone you love? How can something so mighty evoke such empathy? Same way Ann Darrow lamented King Kong's demise, I suppose.