作者：Marianne Krawczyk

创作游戏故事需要哪些付出？首先是大量工作——从构思到最终定稿。这个过程通常由创意总监或首席设计师主导。某些时候，故事脚本的写手也会参与其中。这是个合作过程，通常会令人焦头烂额。

首先，并非所有游戏都需要故事。当项目到达紧要关头，开发时间耗尽，故事内容就会被搁置一边。需要进行大量内部游说，我们方能将故事至于首要位置。

制作团队还面临许多挑战——机制复杂性、时间&资源限制以及沟通失误。

所以若故事内容既麻烦又非必要元素，为何如此多工作室依然趟此浑水？

因为即便在最糟情况，故事都也能起到强化玩法的作用。它们创造情境。玩家更愿意射击什么——墙面，还是纳粹党人？

而在最佳情况中，故事能够转变玩法—–玩法变革故事。故事内容能够帮助我们弄清世界；游戏以全新方式激活故事。沉浸和象征关系创造新的故事叙述方式。玩法赋予我们自由；故事带给我们意义。

那么为何写手和设计师共同处理10车追尾情节中会陷入分歧？毕竟他们握有共同目标：给终端用户创造引人入胜的体验。问题出在他们以不同角度处理相同问题。

游戏写手总是寻找短暂的控制地位（游戏邦注：如在过场动画中），这样他们就能够创作贯穿线索、节奏、冲突、角色发展、情节曲折和主题意义。

游戏设计师则寻找让出控制权的途径——对象不是写手，而是玩家。

写手和设计师都没错。故事从其结构中受益，玩家喜欢故事的自由。

制作团队如何解决此冲突，促使创造者和设计师完美配合？首先先回过头思考我们有关故事运作方式和玩家预期的假设。

故事发展的艰难之处出现在整个制作过程的初始，撰写对话内容的几个月前。本文将再次谈到故事的基本创建模块，同时探究组织内容的新方式，旨在创造富有吸引力且瞄准玩家的游戏体验。

若游戏故事叙述的黄金时代即将到来，那么写手和设计师就有机会重新定义故事的叙述方式，方法是以新角度看待旧问题。

我们假设的“如果……将会怎样？”就是秉承此理念。

如果我们没有围绕玩家创造故事，会出现什么情况？

多数游戏故事都围绕角色发展。这完全能够理解。玩家是游戏的主角。因为他们，故事得以进展。将其看作事件焦点似乎合情合理。

但此模式也带来问题。设计师会发现他们的选择受故事逻辑限制。团队需努力寻找呈现故事内容的方式，同时确保不打断游戏进展。姑且不看最终成品的质量，我们总能看到有玩家抵制或忽略这些游戏内容。

所以若目标是创造围绕玩家的有趣体验，你会怎么做？一个选择是区分游戏故事和玩家故事叙述。

这意味着什么？故事是系列游戏事件的发生顺序——主角在追求目标过程中所要克服的障碍。“故事叙述”是玩家在此故事中的独特经历——玩家以自己认为合适的方式控制角色或故事世界。

谁定义故事叙述？设计师——通过创造游戏世界和系列规则；令玩家把握游戏。

谁定义故事？写手——通过创造主题、角色和故事情节；故事最终得以聚集在一起——游戏最终也得以把握自身含义。

这是微妙差异；故事和故事叙述紧密联系。但这也是个很好的出发点，不论是对设计师，还是写手而言。

若玩家是英雄，但不是主角会出现什么情况？

只要我们将玩家的叙述构思同游戏故事区分开，我们便能更容易看清故事结构的机制——以及如何将它们运用至游戏中。

在其他形式的媒体中（游戏邦注：如电影），主演就是主人公。这是受到广泛认可的理念，很少受到质疑。乔治·克鲁尼从未演过第三主角。但这个理念是否适合游戏？就让我们深入探讨，首先来看看相关术语。

定义主人公的一个方式是依据其欲望。他迫切渴望获得什么——如此强烈，以至于愿意不惜一切代价。

这个简单的定义突出定义主人公玩家所存在的固有问题。玩家渴望获得自己想要的东西——这鲜少就是角色想要的东西。

玩家在高于角色的层面运作。角色认为他是居住在皇宫的王子；玩家知道自己不过是屏幕的一个标记。

玩家的欲望通常同玩法，而非故事相联系。角色表示，“我想要拯救公主”；而玩家表示，“我想要杀死尽可能多的龙。”

存在强烈欲望的主人公会给写手和设计师带来制作问题。欲望会同象征关系发生冲突。

开发者如何解决此困境？

有些工作室会创造存在消极欲望的主角——或是毫无欲望的主角。“我是士兵。我得战斗。”这个方式能够创造支持玩法的角色，但也会相应带来枯燥乏味的角色和毫无意义的情节。

而有些工作室则会制作存在强烈欲望的主角。“如果我只能做一件事，那就是杀死国王，结束战争。”

然后写手和设计师就会向玩家呈现此欲望的影响——这是角色的欲望。不是玩家的欲望—–所以我们最后只能观看过场动画，观看他人的故事。这具有可行性，但存在明显局限。

这是另一选择：将NPC作为主人公，围绕他的欲望创建故事架构——设计同故事情节冲突的游戏玩法。

有些游戏已采用此理念。要弄清谁是故事的主人公，你可以提问这样的问题：谁经常处于危险境地，谁得失最多？

谁的欲望超越其他角色？《生化奇兵》的Fontaine和《孤岛惊魂 2》的Jackal都存在某种欲望。

你可以描绘他们的欲望曲线，看看这些欲望如何激起游戏及故事的冲突。

在此模式中，玩家依然是自身故事的英雄，他通过游戏玩法创造动态故事。设计师设计英雄的路线；写手创造主人公的旅程。

然后他们就能共同探索整合故事和游戏的方式。团队可以赋予玩家新角色——盟友或反派角色，然后允许故事以出乎意料的方式展开。

若我们做出错误选择，结果会如何？

目前我们已探索区分玩家和故事的渠道。我们亦能够在保持故事叙述张力性（游戏邦注：指希望挖掘随后发展的强烈欲望）的前提下基于玩家设计故事。我们可以通过寻找角色失败的途径实现这个目标。

风险非常引人注目。当一切都处在危险中，我们就会给予关注。作为故事写手，我们喜欢创造风险——然后提高风险。

主人公也有欲望。此欲望便遥不可及——若其保守体验内容。所以为实现目标，主人公主角需要冒险。这致使他处在危险情境中。

英雄需要取得成功。真正改变如今存在可能性——这既是承诺，也是威胁。若英雄取得成功，他便能从此快乐地生活。但若失败，一切就会土崩瓦解。

创作故事时，作者会希望知道，“若英雄未能如愿以偿，会出现什么情况？”若答案是“收获不多”，那么故事难以发展。

但真正改变已变成游戏的卖点。玩家能够重新加载上个保存节点。

但此机制不会很快出现。若希望在自己的故事中创造有意义的改变，就需要富有创造性。

在《战神》中，Kratos立誓要杀死战神。若他失败，游戏是否会出现什么变化？除非玩家选择退出游戏。在电影中，英雄宣布自己的目标——“我要杀死那个人”，然后我们就会静观其是否完成。

在游戏中，当玩家角色表示“我要杀死那人时”，结果就在意料之中。结局掌握在玩家手中，因此完全能够控制——处在意料之中。

在玩家控制结果的情况下，我们如何创造叙述气氛？通过创造主角的无意识需求——同有意识欲望冲突的需求。

Athena要求Kratos杀死战神。他表示同意。为什么？这样Athena就能够消除他的梦魇。这暗示Kratos面临潜在问题。他充满愤怒，还是愧疚。愧疚什么？我们无从知晓。我们只能继续游戏，通过Kratos的回忆陈述获悉他的秘密。

最终，真相揭晓。Kratos也许希望通过杀死战神结束自己的梦魇——但在游戏角色中，面对妻儿的离去，他需要的是救赎和宽恕。

角色通常知晓自己要的是什么。他们通常不会有意识地探究自己的所需——但此需求存在与欲望相同的推动力量。这制造角色间的冲突。冲突令故事得以发展。

只要团队制作出包含欲望和需求的角色，他们就具有选择性。他们能够设计满足玩家欲望的故事内容，同时不认同玩家的需求。或者也许主人公能够获其所需。只有一个方式能够一探究竟，那就是继续至故事结尾。

这个方式颇具难度。这意味着团队需要弄清角色的真正需求和欲望，寻找途径合理构建故事架构，这样需求才能够在故事结尾以惊人方式呈现。写手和设计师需要深入了解角色， 比了解自己更甚。

最后Kratos完成自己的欲望。他杀死战神。但他依然无法跳脱出家人死去的回忆。他极度渴望摆脱这些记忆，于是选择跳崖——但依然未能如愿。

Ares死后，众神觉得有必要设立新神，所以他们赋予Kratos长生不老的“天赋”。现在他变得长生不老，再也无法摆脱自己的可怕过去。

玩家获得成功。角色既成功又失败。写手和设计师则皆大欢喜。

总结

本文主要谈论创建游戏故事所面临的结构挑战。

若写手和设计师从项目开始就进行合作（游戏邦注：就是在构思和前制作期间），他们便能共同应对这些游戏/故事挑战。

游戏邦注：原文发布于2009年3月18日，文章叙述以当时为背景。（本文为游戏邦/gamerboom.com编译，拒绝任何不保留版权的转载，如需转载请联系：游戏邦）

Game Writing From The Inside

by Marianne Krawczyk

[In a Gamasutra-exclusive analysis, Krawczyk and O'Connor, writers for the God Of War series and Far Cry 2/Gears Of War respectively, discuss how writers and designers can collaborate smoothly and successfully.]

What does it take to create a story for a game? A lot of work, for one thing — from the concept phase right through to the final draft. The process usually begins with the creative director or lead designer. At some point, a writer is brought on board. It’s a collaborative process — and it can be a rocky one as well.

For one thing, not all games need stories. When push comes to shove and development time runs out, story can fall by the wayside. It can become a serious PR effort, internally, just to get the story work bumped up on the list of priorities.

And there are plenty of challenges for the team to resolve — system complexities, time & resource constraints, and communication gaffes.

So if story development in games is both hard and nonessential, why do so many studios make the effort?

Because even at their worst, stories can enhance gameplay. They provide context. What would players rather shoot — a wall, or a Nazi?

At their best, stories transform gameplay — and gameplay transforms story. Stories help us make sense of the world; games bring stories to life in a completely new way. Immersion and agency create brand-new possibilities for storytelling. Gameplay gives us freedom; story gives us meaning.

So why do so many writers and designers get bogged down in 10-car pileups when they work together? They have the same goal, after all: create a compelling experience for the end user. The trouble begins when they approach the same problem from opposite directions.

A game writer looks for brief moments — cutscene or otherwise — when she can take control of the game so that she can create throughlines, pacing, conflicts, character development, plot twists and thematic meaning.

A game designer looks for ways to give control — not to the writer, but to the player.

Both the writer and the designer are right. Stories benefit from structure, and players love their freedom.

How can teams resolve this conflict so that writers and designers can collaborate successfully? We can start by rethinking our assumptions about how stories work – and what players expect.

The heavy lifting in story development happens at the very beginning of the process, months before a single line of dialog is written. In this article, we revisit the basic building bocks of story and look at ways we can arrange them in new ways to build a compelling, player-centric experience.

If the golden age of game narrative really is right around the corner — and we think it is — then writers and designers have the opportunity to redefine how stories are told, by looking at old problems in new ways.

It’s in this spirit that we are asking, “What if?”

What if we didn’t build the story around the player?

Most game stories revolve around the player character. This makes sense — sort of. Players are the stars of the show. They make things happen. It seems logical to make them the focal point of every event.

But this approach also creates problems. The designer can find his options limited by the story’s logic. The team has to struggle to find ways to present the story events without interrupting the game. And regardless of the quality of the final product, there will always be players that resist the story, or subvert it, or ignore it altogether.

So what do you do if your goal is to create a compelling story that involves the player? One option is make a distinction, right out of the gate, between the game’s story and the player’s narrative.

What does that mean? “Story” is the sequence of events that take place in the game – the main character overcoming obstacles in pursuit of his goal. “Narrative” is the player’s unique experience of that story — the player controlling his character and/or the game world as he sees fit.

(These terms are not perfect or precise. Better terms will probably emerge eventually, as the industry grows.)

Who defines the narrative? The designer — by creating the world and its rulesets; the ways in which the player comes to understand the game.

Who defines the story? The writer — by creating themes, characters and plots; the ways in which the story comes together in the end – the way the game comes to understand itself.

This is a subtle distinction; story and narrative are tightly intertwined. But it can be a useful starting place, for both the designer and the writer.

What if the player were the hero, but not the protagonist?

Once we’ve separated the idea of the player’s narrative from the game’s story, it becomes easier to look at the mechanics of story structure — and how to apply them to a game.

In other forms of media, like movies, the main character is the protagonist. This is a widely accepted concept, rarely questioned. George Clooney is never cast as the third waiter from the left. But does this construct work for games? Let’s take a closer look, starting with terms.

One way to define a protagonist is by his desire. He wants something, badly — so badly he’s willing to fight all odds in order to get it.

This simple definition highlights the problems inherent in casting the player as the protagonist. The player wants what he wants — and rarely is it the same thing that his avatar wants.

The player is operating on a higher plane than his avatar. The avatar thinks he is a prince that lives in a kingdom; the player knows he is a blip on a screen.

The player’s desires are usually tied to gameplay, not story. The avatar says, “I want to save the princess”; the player says, “I want to kill as many dragons as I can.”

A protagonist with a strong desire can create production problems for both the writer and the designer. Desire clashes with agency.

How do developers resolve this dilemma?

Some studios create a main character that has a very passive desire — or no desire at all. “I am a soldier, I fight.” This approach results in an avatar that supports gameplay, but it can also leave us with dull characters and a pointless plot.

Other studios create a main character that is driven by a strong, overpowering desire. “I’ll kill the king and end this war if it’s the last thing I do.”

Then the writer and designer must show the player the impact of this desire — and this is the avatar’s desire, not the player’s desire — so we are left watching cutscenes, and in effect watching someone else’s story. This can work, but it has its obvious limitations.

Here is another option: cast an NPC as the protagonist, build a story arc around his desire — and design gameplay as a counterpunch to that arc.

Some games are already employing this concept. To figure out who is the protagonist of a story, you can ask: Who is the person who’s got the most on the line, the most to lose and the most to gain?

Who wants, more than any other character? Both Fontaine in BioShock and the Jackal in Far Cry 2 want something, badly.

You can map their desire lines and see how those desires ignite the game’s — and story’s — conflict.

With this approach, the player is still the hero — of his own story, which he creates dynamically through gameplay. The designer builds the hero’s path; the writer crafts the protagonist’s journey.

Then, together, they can look for ways to integrate the story and the game. The team can cast the player character in a new role — ally, for example, or antagonist — and then allow the story to unfold in unpredictable ways.

What if we made failure an option?

So far we’ve looked at ways to separate the player from the story. It is also possible to build a story around the player, without losing narrative tension — that intense desire to find out what happens next. We can do it by looking for ways for our character to fail.

Risk is compelling. When everything’s on the line, we pay attention. As writers, we love to create stakes — and then raise them.

The protagonist has a desire. It’s unattainable — if he plays it safe. So the protagonist takes a chance in order to reach his goal. This puts him at risk.

Now the hero has to succeed, or else. Real change becomes a possibility — and that’s both a promise and a threat. If hero succeeds, then he will live happily ever after. But if the hero fails, then things will fall apart.

When developing a story, the writer wants to know, “What will happen if the hero doesn’t get what she wants?” If the answer is “Not much,” then the story doesn’t work yet.

But true change — permanent, point-of-no-return change — is a hard sell in games. Players can always reload his last save point.

And that mechanic isn’t going away anytime soon. If we want to create meaningful change in our stories, we’ll have to get creative.

In God of War, Kratos vows to kill the god of war. Is there any chance he’ll fail to do so? Only if the player quits the game. In a movie, the hero announces his goal — “I’m going to kill that man” — and then we in the audience watch to see if he pulls it off.

In games, when the player character says “I’m going to kill that man,” the ending is a foregone conclusion. The ending is in the player’s hands, and is therefore entirely controllable — and predictable.

How can we create narrative tension when player controls the outcome? By creating unconscious needs in the main character — needs that clash with conscious desires. (NOTE: God Of War narrative spoilers ensue.)

Athena asks Kratos to kill the god of war. He agrees. Why? So that Athena will take his nightmares away. This hints at Kratos’ underlying problem. He is consumed by rage — and also by guilt. Guilt over what? We don’t know. We have to play the game and watch Kratos’ memories unfold in order to learn his secrets.

Eventually, the truth is revealed. Kratos may want to kill the god of war and end his nightmares — but what he needs is redemption and forgiveness for his role in the death of his wife and child.

Characters usually know what they want. They almost never consciously understand what it is they need — but that need drives them just as strongly as their desire. This creates conflict within the character, and conflict between characters. Conflicts make stories work.

Once a team has a character with both wants and needs, they have options. They can design the story to allow the player to get what he wants, while denying the character the thing that he needs. Or, maybe he does get what he needs. There’s only one way to know for sure, and that’s to reach the end of the story (and game).

This approach is a demanding one. It means the team has to figure out what the character really needs, versus what he wants, and find ways to build the story events so that the need is revealed in a surprising way at the end of the story. The writer and designer have to understand the character more than he understands himself.

In the end, Kratos does what he set out to do. He kills the god of war. (Surprise!) But he still can’t escape the memory of his family’s death. He is so desperate to escape these memories that he throws himself off a cliff — but even that doesn’t work.

With Ares dead, the gods realize that they must have a new god of war — and so they give Kratos the “gift” of eternal life. Now he is an immortal — one that can never escape his horrible past.

The player succeeds. The avatar succeeds — and fails. Both the writer and the designer go home happy.

Conclusion

In this article, we’ve looked at a few of the structural challenges facing anyone that sets out to create a story for a game.

If writers and designers start collaborating at the very beginning of a project, during the concept and pre-production phase, they can tackle these game/story challenges together. （Source：gamasutra）