This is my entry for October's Blogs of the Round Table
I'm no expert on horror games, movies, or literature. I haven't played many of the essential horror titles like Silent Hill 2 (edit- just started it), Dead Space, or Amnesia. But I do have a bit of history with the genre and am interested in playing more.
I first started playing the Resident Evil series when I was ten. They scared me, but I pushed through primarily because my friend couldn't bear to. We were a couple of annoyingly competitive boys. The deliberateness of the original trilogy, which emphasized survival over action, lead to hour upon hour of prepubescent horror (which were, thankfully, less horrifying than the pubescent horror that followed, but now's not the time or place). There was action in these earlier installments, but I mostly wanted to avoid it - stumbling through a door after running past a horde of zombies and hearing the cozy safe room music was particularly poignant. Resident Evil 2 also marked the first time I used a strategy guide. The scares weren't quite so intense when I knew they were coming. I did not share this with my wuss-friend. I won out anyway because at least I didn't have to trade the game in due to "stomach aches." So there.
Anyway, someone somewhere (help?) once mentioned that one interesting thing about horror games is the fact that you can decide not to go through the door where something awful is bound to be, unlike the characters in slasher movies who routinely frustrate us with their boneheaded decisions. While this is mostly true, we can't really make progress without going through that door. It's like pausing or turning off the movie just before the protagonist opens the door to the creepy closet. There is a small level of control either way, but I'd argue that the little bit of extra control video games offer can help create tension.
The difference may seem arbitrary, but it's important. The game designers are, effectively, still shoving us in a certain direction, but the freedom to dig our heels in before a potentially horrific encounter allows the tension to boil. We know we have to push on, but that tiny amount of agency is significant. It gives us the illusion of ownership over the experience - it becomes our boneheaded decision. Though we really don't have much choice, we empathize more directly with the character in this situation because we're opening the door despite the death rattle behind it.
Once we go through the door, survival horror games such as Resident Evil and Silent Hill use another tactic unique to video games to keep us in-tune and hyper-aware: exploration. Exploration is mandatory in these games. With resources scarce and plenty of crucial, easy-to-miss items; the player can often be found walking slowly into furniture or along walls while repeatedly mashing the X button. An admittedly rote convention, it ensures that every inch of these meticulously crafted, blood soaked worlds is experienced. We memorize the environmental layouts, making it especially disorienting when a new Big Bad is hanging out in a hallway we've been safely navigating for hours.
The innate qualities of video games - the heightened interactivity, the system of rules that define each game - make for distinctive horror experiences. These gamey properties breathe new life into the "Don't Go in There" film cliche.
What I'm interested in now is the kind of horror game experience that worms its way under my skin and weighs on my mind when I'm not playing. Something like the "body horror" of Cronenberg's Videodrome or the Charles Burns comic Black Hole - they both demand to be internalized and both make for creepy, hypnotic digestion. Dark Souls may not be horror, but it too demands attention even between play sessions. It pushed me away while begging me to return for more. It's nothing if not intimidating. Good gameplay is as catchy (addictive can be such an ugly word) as a good song. Its notes, its color and rhythm stick with us after the song's ended, after the game's been turned off. After playing Katamari Damacy, the real world looks just a bit more like a cartoon and I wonder which cars, trees, or benches I can roll up. I look forward to playing more horror games that have a similar, less gleeful effect.
Any recommendations are most welcome. Perhaps Silent Hill 2 is exactly what I'm looking for.![]()
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| this is me scared. |
I'm no expert on horror games, movies, or literature. I haven't played many of the essential horror titles like Silent Hill 2 (edit- just started it), Dead Space, or Amnesia. But I do have a bit of history with the genre and am interested in playing more.
I first started playing the Resident Evil series when I was ten. They scared me, but I pushed through primarily because my friend couldn't bear to. We were a couple of annoyingly competitive boys. The deliberateness of the original trilogy, which emphasized survival over action, lead to hour upon hour of prepubescent horror (which were, thankfully, less horrifying than the pubescent horror that followed, but now's not the time or place). There was action in these earlier installments, but I mostly wanted to avoid it - stumbling through a door after running past a horde of zombies and hearing the cozy safe room music was particularly poignant. Resident Evil 2 also marked the first time I used a strategy guide. The scares weren't quite so intense when I knew they were coming. I did not share this with my wuss-friend. I won out anyway because at least I didn't have to trade the game in due to "stomach aches." So there.
Anyway, someone somewhere (help?) once mentioned that one interesting thing about horror games is the fact that you can decide not to go through the door where something awful is bound to be, unlike the characters in slasher movies who routinely frustrate us with their boneheaded decisions. While this is mostly true, we can't really make progress without going through that door. It's like pausing or turning off the movie just before the protagonist opens the door to the creepy closet. There is a small level of control either way, but I'd argue that the little bit of extra control video games offer can help create tension.
The difference may seem arbitrary, but it's important. The game designers are, effectively, still shoving us in a certain direction, but the freedom to dig our heels in before a potentially horrific encounter allows the tension to boil. We know we have to push on, but that tiny amount of agency is significant. It gives us the illusion of ownership over the experience - it becomes our boneheaded decision. Though we really don't have much choice, we empathize more directly with the character in this situation because we're opening the door despite the death rattle behind it.
Once we go through the door, survival horror games such as Resident Evil and Silent Hill use another tactic unique to video games to keep us in-tune and hyper-aware: exploration. Exploration is mandatory in these games. With resources scarce and plenty of crucial, easy-to-miss items; the player can often be found walking slowly into furniture or along walls while repeatedly mashing the X button. An admittedly rote convention, it ensures that every inch of these meticulously crafted, blood soaked worlds is experienced. We memorize the environmental layouts, making it especially disorienting when a new Big Bad is hanging out in a hallway we've been safely navigating for hours.
The innate qualities of video games - the heightened interactivity, the system of rules that define each game - make for distinctive horror experiences. These gamey properties breathe new life into the "Don't Go in There" film cliche.
What I'm interested in now is the kind of horror game experience that worms its way under my skin and weighs on my mind when I'm not playing. Something like the "body horror" of Cronenberg's Videodrome or the Charles Burns comic Black Hole - they both demand to be internalized and both make for creepy, hypnotic digestion. Dark Souls may not be horror, but it too demands attention even between play sessions. It pushed me away while begging me to return for more. It's nothing if not intimidating. Good gameplay is as catchy (addictive can be such an ugly word) as a good song. Its notes, its color and rhythm stick with us after the song's ended, after the game's been turned off. After playing Katamari Damacy, the real world looks just a bit more like a cartoon and I wonder which cars, trees, or benches I can roll up. I look forward to playing more horror games that have a similar, less gleeful effect.
Any recommendations are most welcome. Perhaps Silent Hill 2 is exactly what I'm looking for.
