As mentioned in a previous edition of Big Ideas, it wasn't until the inclusion of named characters like Mario in Donkey Kong that narrative became an important facet of the gaming experience. Suddenly, we weren't just twitching to visual stimuli -- we were taking part in a story.

However, as much fun as it is to play as Link, or Sam Fisher, or Altair, the issue of immersion comes up time and again. One school of thought favors the idea that immersion is complete when the player is only in control of the mechanics of gameplay, and not in any actual decision making that relates to the story. It's as though the player is embedded in the psyche of the protagonist, looking out through the eyes of the main character, living vicariously through him/her. This lets the player fully appreciate the world that the game designer has built, because it's a managed experience -- the player only sees the pieces of that reality that the designer feels is important.

The other take on this concept is that it's only through the ability to make one's own choices that true immersion begins. It's only through interaction with an environment that we can truly feel a part of it. This can take many forms, from the ability to travel anywhere and see everything to the ability to talk with every NPC encountered. Regardless of which camp one belongs to, it's generally thought that actions have more significant impact when players feel a personal stake in the events at hand. But how to implement that sense of ownership?

When players can create and name their own avatar, choose from a list of conversational responses to any situation, and have full roaming freedom -- the "sandbox" model -- then yes, there is an opportunity for players to project themselves into the game, a digital stand-in for every action and impulse. The problem with that, however, is that it can feel, paradoxically, like even more of a managed experience. For a game's story to have any meaning, there has to be a definitive end, which means that the player must be herded to a certain extent to make sure they reach that point. At some stage, the control must be taken away from the player, or at least the range of choices narrowed, to ensure a satisfying denouement.

However, if the player has had, up until that point, full unfettered freedom, the sudden loss of that freedom can result in an unsatisfying experience. No one really likes being told what to do, and being herded isn't much fun when it's apparent that that's what's going on.

At the same time, though, people do like to be guided. That's arguably an important part of the video game experience -- it's not just about exploration, but about being shown something new, and many times that requires guidance. After all, if there is an overarching storyline, then events must proceed linearly, with a specific timeline. While the player may have freedom to wander within that timeline to an extent, each temporal milestone must be hit for the experience to work properly.

So, is it possible to offer players both a guided experience and full freedom of choice? And how does the concept of identity play into this?

One means to accomplish this "guided formlessness" is through the imposition at the outset of a particular class, race, or role. For example: if it's said outright that all Orcs are evil, then the player knows that to play an Orc is to roleplay an evil character. No matter the quest or storyline, the player will never be anything other than evil. Is there freedom within that context? Yes and no. One might be offered the option of being less evil, the "noble savage" template. On the other hand, the ability to commit evil with wanton abandon offers a kind of freedom itself.

Then there are games like Fable and Black and White. These titles offer the player a choice between moral extremes with visual representation of the turn toward good or evil. There is arguably more freedom in these games, as the player may choose to follow the path of virtue or vice. But even then, the player is taking the role of the character, not truly playing themselves.

So where is the true path to self-representation in games? Will we have to wait until games have reached the point where the real world may be modeled so truly that the game world is indistinguishable from reality, complete with realistically-acting characters, and the entire range of choices open to every player? Will games still be fun when every action has a realistic consequence? Wouldn't that take away the fun of playing against your own situation? Perhaps video games were never meant to represent the player, instead allowing people to try out new masks to feel for themselves what it might be like to be different for a while. And in that difference, valuable lessons may be learned, influencing future behavior for good or ill. Maybe if we can begin thinking of ourselves as characters with a game to win, we can begin to truly understand our purpose in life.